Author's Note: So. I was talking with some people on tumblr a few weeks ago and now this is happening, I guess? Honestly, if someone told me in 2018 that once I got done with Stygian I'd be giving it round #2 in four years I probably would have cried. Idk. I'm super excited to delve back into this world, my writing skills greatly improved. Love you all. Hopefully, we can enjoy this version just as much as the OG. And if you HAVEN'T read the original, welcome to my chaos.

Disclaimer: No.

Summary: After the Battle of New York, S.H.I.E.L.D. claims Loki for punishment and consequently, also HYDRA. When the Avengers are assembled under the belief that Loki is escaping his cell, they rapidly realize what a mistake they've made leaving the younger Asgardian in their hands. (Gen)

Warnings: Implied/referenced torture, violence, blood, implied/referenced child abuse and neglect, PTSD, anxiety attacks, suicidal thoughts, mental health issues, discussion of self-harm. Strong language. Further warnings will be posted at the top of the chapters. No smut.

Pairings: Clint/Natasha, Tony/Pepper, minor Steve/Bucky

For your information, this story is cross-posted on a03 under the penname of GalaxyThreads.

And just so this is explicitly clear:

1. No, you don't need to have read Stygian first. Honestly, while the stories are going to share the same basis of a plot, they're going to be wildly different.

2. I AM NOT DELETING THE ORIGINAL VERSION. I DO NOT DELETE FICS.

"If I promise not to kill you,

Can I have a hug?"

-Unknown

Chapter One:

The prison reminds Tony of a forgotten graveyard left to rot.

Sticking up out of the Wyoming sand like some sort of gray mirage, it is, at best, ugly and unsettling. There's nothing around the building for miles, not even a small town sprung straight out of a cliché TV series with an approximate population of ten. The only road to and from civilization is a poorly maintained dirt one, riddled with potholes and rocks. It is nothing short of a God-given miracle they've made it this far without the tires giving out entirely.

Thick, bellowing sand-riddled gusts of wind have blown against the sides, leaving weathered marks and streaks of peeling paint. Tony's pretty sure that the building must have been an industrial white at one point, but now it's a horrid mixture of gray and brown. All the windows are covered, and there's not a single car in the parking lot beyond a lone bus marked with S.H.I.E.L.D's logo.

If not for the ungodly amount of security plastered all over the exterior and a large prison fence—complete with barbed wire and electrification—wrapped around the building, Tony would have thought that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s good director gave them the wrong address.

Honestly, even with all of this, Tony's still not sure Fury didn't.

The hell did you get me into, Nick?

He clenches his hands around the steering wheel compulsively.

Beside him in the passenger seat of the car, Bruce is anxiously tapping his fingers against the window seal, his knee bouncing. Dressed in baggy clothing, dark hair a mess around his face, and glasses crooked from how much he keeps pinching at the bridge of his nose, the scientist looks ragged. His face is pale and his lips are pressed together deeply, indicating some sort of distress. Tony's jaw has begun to set the closer they've gotten to the prison, and now it's clenched so tightly it's giving him a headache.

Still, hypocritically, after Tony's fifth or sixth glance in Bruce's direction, Tony says pointedly, "Maybe try to breathe occasionally. That might help."

Bruce exhales in a sharp, wheezy gust. When inhales, he holds it at the top for painful seconds. Then he shakes his head, annoyed, and continues to tap his fingers. It would be more effective if he kept trying to breathe, but Tony doesn't say anything, giving up. He can't help Bruce's building panic attack. He's been trying since they got into the sedan without success.

But c'est la vie, right?

God, he hates this.

Tony forces himself to keep driving the car forward, toward the prison gate with its little caboose house and the no-doubt armed guard awaiting their arrival. It's not his first time in prison. It probably won't be his last. But nothing can stop the growing nausea that's beginning to sit in his bones, settling into his very being. He doesn't want to be here.

Look. He gets why Fury dragged Bruce out here given everything that's going on, but why Tony? Was he just feeling particularly pissy? You know what would have been more helpful, and probably a better use of their resources? Letting Tony take a crack at whatever is wrong with the Raft's electronics so they can keep Loki from crawling his way out of that hellhole to come to claim his revenge. Or whatever Fury decided was happening "officially"; not having him on chauffeur duty.

"I don't want to do this," Bruce says. It's the first words he's spoken in over twenty minutes despite Tony's attempts to goad something out of him.

Well.

Tough.

I don't want to be here either.

Tony flexes his hands on the steering wheel, twisting his mouth. "Yeah." He says. It's about all he can dredge up. There isn't really a way to verbalize the knot in his stomach. "That's kind of a given."

"Agent Romanov should be here. Not me." Bruce protests. "I'm not…" his hand flaps a bit, looking for the word. "Good at any of this."

He's not here for a skillset. Tony bites on the inside of his cheek, keeping that thought to himself. Fury wanted to keep Bruce and General Ross, the man in charge of the Raft, as far apart as he could for as long as possible. Having heard several horror stories from Bruce about the General's sadistic manhunt, Tony is inclined to agree with the sentiment. Bruce isn't aware that General Ross is even involved in this yet, and Tony really doesn't want to be the one to tell him. Bruce is here to keep the two apart for as long as possible. That's it.

He doesn't say anything, chewing on his lower lip instead.

The car pulls up to a stop in front of the caboose-thing—Tony can't remember what it's called for the life of him—and Tony rolls down the window to look the guard in the eye. He can't be older than thirty, the vigor of youth practically oozing off of him, eyes bright and widening comically as he sees who's in the car.

"You're—" He sputters helplessly.

Tony gives him his best camera smile. "Hi. Director Fury sent us." Tony looks over at Bruce, who hands him a stack of folded, crinkled papers from the inside of his jacket. Tony passes them up to the guard. "The digital paperwork should have already gone through for his release. Personally, I think showing you this and wasting a tree to do it is just a bit excessive, but don't let anyone know I told you that."

The guard bobs his head in agreement, looking over the paperwork for a moment. He nods to himself again before he pushes the button to open the gate. Machinery groans as it whirs to life, but Tony doesn't move the car, thrown. He stares at the guard.

"Do…you want to see some ID or something?" Tony asks. He actually brought his driver's license for this, something he's kinda terrible at remembering in general. And his—reluctantly received—S.H.I.E.L.D. ID card.

"Oh!" the kid says, slapping the papers down. "Right. Yes. Sorry. I need to see ID." He lifts out his hand expectantly and Tony prays to God that he's new and not normally in charge because the security in this prison must be horrible if he is. Honestly, it's probably just seeing them in person. Tony kinda has a terrible tendency to forget he's famous until someone gasps at the fact he's a real person or he needs to use his fame for something.

After several ID cards have been passed back and forth, Tony and Bruce are allowed into the grounds.

Tony parks the car in the empty lot, twisting off the ignition. The nausea is worse, like a bruise in his stomach that he can't stop poking at.

He looks at Bruce. The chemist is still pale, almost gray now, staring at the building with wide eyes. He's rigid with panic. He's not going anywhere without breaking down.

Damn it.

Tony releases a quiet sigh, realizing that he's going to have to do this on his own. "Stay here," he says, opening the car door and stepping outside into the blistering heat, biting back a groan. God curse Wyoming's need to tenderize them.

Bruce looks up at him, startled. "What?"

"You look like you're about to puke. Stay here. I'll go get him myself." Tony says, making sure he has his phone and sliding a pair of sunglasses onto his face. The makeup is doing little to hide the bags underneath his eyes despite his best efforts and he'd rather not announce that Tony Stark isn't sleeping to the whole world.

"Tony, I—" Bruce says clearly guilt-ridden despite how relieved he looks, "I can't just let you do this by yourself. We were supposed to go together."

"Mhm. Plans change. Here," Tony flicks the car keys. Bruce fumbles to catch them awkwardly, somehow managing to ram his elbow against the gearshift in the process. Tony winces for his sake. "In case you need to make a quick getaway. I have the Mark X on standby. We'll be fine."

Bruce stares at him, shoulders raised and looking more distressed by this prospect than he did actually going into the building. Tony tries to draw up the energy to be reassuring, but can only manage a morbid, twisted grimace of a smile before closing the door.

He doesn't wait to give Bruce time to force himself out of the car to follow, instead moving rapidly toward the entrance.

It takes several more security codes and annoyed employees before Tony is allowed into the building and what feels like a further wrestle with God himself before he's being directed toward the purpose of his visit in the first place. The inside of the building is in much better shape than the exterior, painted a blistering, shiny white. Everything looks sleek, new, and untouchable.

He sees guards dressed in faceless black, a logo he doesn't recognize on their shoulders. The few prisoners that he catches brief glimpses of are in a lifeless gray or brown. There's nothing outwardly untoward about the building, but still, there's something...off about the entire facility that he can't place or put into words. It's making the hair on the back of his neck stand up and a low, thrumming panic begin to pulse beneath his skin. He needs to get out.

Now.

By the time the warden arrives, a white, balding man who looks like he could play an angry army soldier in TV, Tony is already exhausted and annoyed. Now he's ready to gnash teeth together and scream into an empty void.

After explaining, again, why he's here, the warden bristles. "We didn't get any documents about his release," he insists, looking a little flustered and deeply annoyed. He pushes up his glasses. "He's not safe to be out in the public. Why would Director Fury clear his release without consulting me first?"

"Because we have bigger problems," Tony says vaguely, squinting at the warden's name tag. Introductions weren't passed around. Tony's eyes ache too much to do little more than determine that yes, this is the Latin alphabet, but what those symbols mean next to each other is a puzzle beyond their capability.

"Like what?" the doctor demands. Agents and staff are practically flying out of the man's way as they hurry down the halls. Tony watches this whole thing feeling detached. He can see prisoners being escorted by armed guards to various parts of the building. Everyone looks a little sick. Why are they moving around so much?

They pass a hall of locked cells with no windows. Tony is reminded again that this is where S.H.I.E.L.D. sticks anyone who isn't quite dangerous enough for the Raft, but not safe enough for normal prison. The information on this building was scarce when Tony had Jarvis go through the database to find anything earlier. What is it that they do here, exactly? There are too many doctors here. Is this some sort of mental facility?

Wait. No. That seems familiar. That's what it's listed as in the building code, isn't it?

"Bigger problems," Tony repeats absently.

"Don't be smart with me." The warden says with bite.

"Sorry," Tony says automatically.

Shit, is that person bleeding? There's blood all over the front of their gray scrubs. In the distance, he can hear a woman screaming and yelling in a foreign language and whirls toward the sound. What the hell is going on here?

The warden keeps walking like this is completely normal.

Tony doesn't stop even as much as he wants to.

After going down several floors in an elevator, they make a sharp right toward another subset of prison cells, and Tony feels something uncomfortable crawl up his back. At the end of the block, he sees a tall white man with a glinting—is that metal?—arm being shoved into a cell forcefully. The prisoner catches Tony's eyes for a moment, but instead of anger or even a plea for help, all that Tony sees is nothing. The gaze is completely dead.

Tony averts his eyes with guilt, clenching his fists.

God. He hates prison.

Less than a third of the people here should actually be here, everyone else is given their own personal hell because of a broken system no one can fix. Metal-arm-man is shoved roughly through the doorway, the guard speaking sharply in Russian. The words are too indistinct for Tony to pick up properly, but he hears the stifled cry of pain and the sound of something being hit.

"Um, okay, what the hell is—?" Tony starts to ask, making a move toward the prisoner, but the warden grabs his arm before he can get more than a foot in that direction. Tony looks at him, angry, confused, and rattled.

He has to remind himself to exhale.

Thank God Bruce didn't come with him.

"Leave it. Everyone here is unstable and dangerous." The warden's fingers tighten. "We do what we have to. This is where S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps the psychopaths and the crazies, not anyone you want to help, I assure you. I can't imagine what the Director wants with him." The doctor looks pointedly at a cell marked B2C03.

Tony's stomach coils up.

"I don't think that beating anyone to death is going to help," Tony says. The words are pointed, but his voice is almost breathless. Metal-arm-guy is gone, the door closing shut behind the guard as he leaves. Tony missed his window, if there ever really was any, to help.

The warden rolls his eyes. "You have very privileged thinking. Let me see the release papers again."

Tony hands them over stiffly. The entire cellblock smells faintly of blood and piss, wafting together with some sort of chemical he can't identify and would probably be better off if he didn't figure out. There aren't any windows. Why don't they have any windows? He can't remember seeing any while walking down here. And, giving it a moment of consideration, he doesn't think there are any, judging by how pale and pasty the warden looks.

The man's mouth thins and his eyes narrow, but with reluctance and an unhappy pinch to his mouth, he hands the papers back to Tony and lifts up his badge to slide it along the door. There's an obnoxious beep and the warden shoves open the door.

The walls are pale gray and the cement floor is cracking around a dirty drain. There are no windows. A small ventilation shaft sits above the toilet, blowing cold air into the room. Despite the fact it's a hundred and three degrees outside, Tony immediately wishes he had a jacket. The only sign of habitation is a single piece of paper, tucked in the corner of the mirror.

There's a group of crudely drawn cats, joining hands and labeled with illegible names, and the words "MIS U" underlined four times with purple crayons is decorating the page. It seems so bizarrely out of place in all of this that Tony thinks it must be some sort of joke.

"Oh!" a woman's voice exclaims, whirling back to face them from where she's seated on a welded-down stool. She's holding a wooden clipboard and looks at her watch. "Mr. Dwyer! What are you doing here? The session doesn't end for another thirty minutes."

Dwyer. Okay. His brain had sort of decided it was Samuels so that's concerning.

"Patrisha," Dwyer says through his teeth. The word alone, drawn out and careful, is acidic. Patrisha's face drops a fraction, her hand tightening at the edge of her clipboard. Patrisha sort of looks like an exhausted mom from a Christmas movie. Her long black hair is tucked into messy cornwalls, her clothing rumpled. Her brown skin, like Dwyer's, is pale and she looks a little sick. "Things have changed. The Director has ordered your patient's release."

"What?" Patrisha looks confused, then a little relieved. The woman's gaze slides to him. "Oh my god. You're—"

"In your opinion, do you think that Mr. Barton is ready for that?" Dwyer interrupts. He sounds like he already has an answer in mind.

As the two hold a staring contest while Patrisha fumbles out a hasty answer, Tony forces himself to stop avoiding the figure hunched on the bed, head in their hands. The reason Tony is here at all.

Clint Barton looks nothing like the last time Tony saw him, which isn't an improvement. Six months ago at Clint's trial, the man had already looked worn to the bone. Now, dangerously thin, skin a pasty gray, and looking defeated and rumpled, he doesn't look any better. His hands are trembling where they're clasped into his hair, his first and second fingers on his left hand tightly wound together with medical tape, clearly broken.

There's a ghastly scar on his right forearm that he didn't have half a year ago, leaving mangled skin looking like some sort of Frankenstein patch job.

Oh, god.

Tony's mouth pushes together tightly and he allows himself one second of crushing guilt. Six months. Six damn months. On Natasha's request—threats—and his own desire to cease the man's suffering, Tony had been working with his legal team to spring the archer ever since his incarceration. The World Security Council wanted something to publicly blame for the Helicarrier deaths and the loss of the aircraft itself, and Clint took the downfall for that.

Tony exhales heavily, rubbing at the bridge of his nose for a moment.

Okay, okay. Just keep yourself together. You cannot fall apart right here.

Tony claps his hands together, startling everyone in the room without meaning to. Clint's head snaps up and the two of them share a weighted, heavy stare. A thin, multi-colored ring of bruises is strung around the archer's forehead. Clint blinks several times, brow furrowing, then sits back, his expression morphing into disbelief.

It takes Tony a second to find his voice. "Agent Barton is coming with me by order of Director Fury. Do you want to see the order of release papers as well, Patrisha?"

Patrisha shakes her head, getting to her feet and shooting Dwyer a look that's almost gleaming with a small, shit-eating grin. "No thank you, Mr. Stark."

"Great." Tony looks at the archer. "Get your stuff, Legolas. We need to leave. Now."

"Now?" Clint repeats, a touch of wonder in his tone. His voice is a little hoarse.

Tony nods. "Yeah."

Clint starts to get up and stops, looking up at Dwyer, his gaze shuddering faintly. There's something about the instinctive action that Tony finds unsettling. Clint is waiting for something. Permission, maybe. Whatever it is, Dwyer doesn't give it.

Clint doesn't move, carefully sitting back down. His throat works painfully. He doesn't look at Tony, almost as if he can't.

Tony watches the exchange. He thinks about that girl screaming somewhere in here. Six god damn months. What the hell has Dwyer been doing to him?

"Barton," Tony says after a moment, toneless. He doesn't know what to say here. His mouth is dry and the words have clogged up his throat. He feels like he should say something to make this whole situation feel less awful. In the end, the words don't come. They don't fix anything. They never really do when it comes to him.

Dwyer's lip quirks a fraction, not quite a smile, but something like a smirk, and he looks at Tony. "Agent Barton isn't well enough to travel. Whatever emergency the Director is experiencing will have to be dealt with without him."

Okay. Yeah. No.

Not happening.

Tony has been here for less than thirty minutes and his skin is crawling. He's not leaving Clint here if it kills him. They've been trying to get this to happen for months, and now presented with an actual opportunity, Tony isn't going to walk away that easily.

The archer exhales faintly, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists tightly. Resignation settles into his frame like it's trying to bend it in half. He doesn't say anything. No arguments, no pleading, he just sits there and takes Dwyer's word like it's biblical.

Tony presses his lips together and looks up at Dwyer, eyes blazing. "Yeah. Whatever. Barton, come on. We need to go. Now. Fury's going to dock me points if I'm late and I want to get a good grade in transportation."

What? Tony clenches his jaw.

"I, um." Clint looks up at him. Again, his eyes slide toward Dwyer and he shrinks a bit. "It might be better if I…"

"Nope!" Tony says, loudly. Too loud. Clint winces underneath the sound. "Nope, up, c'mon. The world may potentially be ending again. We need you to help stop it."

"What?" All three of them ask nearly at once.

He ignores the question.

Tony shakes his head, swallowing his initial reluctance to step foot in the cell—how the hell does he know if he's going to be able to leave? What if Dwyer just locks them both in here?— to step inside and forcefully grab Clint's wrist and pull him to his feet. Clint goes up in a stagger, nearly toppling forward. Tony reaches out and grabs him to stop him from tumbling to the floor. Clint's body is almost brittle beneath his hands, bony and worn. Tony has to work not to automatically jerk his hands back with surprise.

Clint breathes out in a harsh gasp before steading himself and standing upright. Tony holds onto him for a moment more before carefully letting go. Clint remains on his feet even though Tony half expects him not to.

Tony watches him critically. Clint blinks slowly, then turns his head to look at Tony again. That wide-eyed disbelief is back on his face, something in his gaze that looks more than simply dead. Hope. Relief.

In a voice low and almost sick with anticipation, Clint asks, "I'm really getting out of here?"

Tony presses his lips together. "Yeah." He agrees, quiet.

Again, a fidgeted glance toward Dwyer before Clint hesitantly moves forward and grabs the crayon drawing. With reverence, he plucks it out of the corner of the mirror, smooths it over, folds it into several more sections, and then tucks it into the waistband of his pants. He doesn't have any pockets, Tony realizes.

Clint looks back at him. "We can go. I don't have anything else here."

Tony hesitates for a moment, more surprised by that than he cares to admit—six months and you don't have anything?— but this is a freaking prison and it's not supposed to be comfortable, before nodding and starting to make his way toward the exit. Clint follows after him, practically breathing down his neck from how close he is.

Dwyer scowls at him.

Tony offers him a smug smile in return, starting to walk past the man in the general direction of the exit—he's pretty sure it's this way and if it's not he'll just have Jarvis figure something out—but stops as Dwyer grabs Clint's wrist.

Clint's entire body locks up and he freezes, turning to look back at the warden. Patrisha takes a half step forward, anxious creases at the corners of her eyes.

"Don't do this, Mr. Barton." Dwyer warns. His eyes drop toward the mangled scar on Clint's arm and the archer, if possible, tenses up more, "You aren't well enough to be out there."

Clint is silent, throat working.

"I'd hate for something to happen."

What the hell?

Unsettled and more than disturbed, Tony rolls his eyes in the most extreme manner he can manage and flicks Dwyer's forearm, feigning nonchalance. "What are you? Some sort of mob boss? Relax, okay? Even if Barton's screws are loose, we need him. So. Actually, you know what," Tony gets out his phone, going to his contact list and shows it to Dwyer. "I'm sure that Director Fury would love to know how cooperative you're being about this. If you're so confident that Barton shouldn't be out there, I'll call him up and you present your case. If Fury says you're right, we'll leave it at that."

Dwyer's nostrils flare, but he lets go of Clint's wrist finger by finger, like he's willingly dropping prize money into open flame.

Clint snaps his wrist away as soon as he's able, taking a step back. Tony gladly welcomes it, wanting to put as much distance between the two as possible.

He nods and awkwardly swings an arm around Clint's shoulders as if the physical contact will keep Dwyer away from both of them.

The return journey is met with no fewer disturbances and concerning sounds that echo across the building, but they don't have time to deal with this. Later. Once the Raft is resolved. Tony will freely admit that he walks a little faster on the return journey, practically dragging Clint out when the man can't keep up pace with him.

Dwyer and Patrisha follow them out, eventually getting joined by several aides all—except Patrisha—who say that Barton needs to stay here. Persistently. Annoyingly. It gets harder and harder to ignore, but Tony walks very fast. Clint is an alarming shade of white and sort of looks like he's ready to puke by the time they finally exit the building.

The blistering sunshine makes Tony wince, even behind the sunglasses, but Clint lifts up a hand to block the worst of the sunlight, actually recoiling from the light like it hurts. God, when was the last time that he was outside?

No one in the facility looks like they've spent quality time outside in decades.

Bruce has gotten out of the car and is anxiously waiting beside it with his arms crossed over his chest. As they, and their entourage exit the building, Bruce casts Tony a nervous look. Tony sort of feels like throwing up his hands in sheer frustration.

"Stop, stop, stop," one of the doctors, Timson, Tony is pretty sure his nametag reads demands, "Where are you even taking him?"

"The Atlantic," Tony answers, resting a hand on Clint's shoulder in reassurance. The archer rocks beneath the weight of his hand, looking up at Tony with a scrunched expression.

Dwyer sputters, but Dr. Timson gives a gasping sound of displeasure. Sort of like Tony just kicked a dog in front of him or something. "The Atlantic Ocean?" Dr. Timson repeats, for clarification.

"That's what I said." Tony agrees, eyebrow cocking up.

"You can't take him." Dr. Timson argues. "He's important for our—For his own recovery. You can't drag him out into the middle of the damn ocean. He's not ready."

"I think that a change of environment will be very helpful for Agent Barton." Patrisha inputs. The doctors and aides all turn to look at her with varying degrees of loathing. Patrisha doesn't even flinch, jutting up her chin a fraction. Tony could kiss her.

"Tony," Bruce says, his tone squished, like he wants to speak but he's afraid to. As stares land on him, Bruce wilts a fraction, hand clenching around the edge of the open car door compulsively. He clears his throat. "We need to go. Now."

Tony nods, giving Clint a half-hearted push toward the car. Clint nearly loses his balance, fumbling awkwardly to get his footing underneath himself before taking large steps toward the sedan. The aids and doctors follow after them like a child unwilling to let go of their parent's hand.

"We've barely seen any improvement in him," the warden says, irritated. "He can't leave."

Clint climbs inside the car, vanishing in the back, and Tony's patience reaches the end of its very short rope. He turns around harshly to the warden and jabs a pointed finger against his chest. Dwyer, startled, takes a step back. "Does an official release from Director Fury mean something different here?" Tony asks sharply.

"What?" Dwyer asks before bristling. "Of course not. We respect the chain of command."

Wow, that was a subtle jab.

Tony nods, snorting with dark amusement. He lifts up the release papers again and shoves them into Dwyer's face, who sputters. "Really? That surprises me. Do try to read English beyond a third-grader level. Have a lovely day."

With that, Tony opens the passenger door of the car and slides inside. Bruce starts the engine before Tony has even pulled the door shut. The doctors, guards, and aids, all stand several feet away bristling, but make no move to stop them. It sort of feels like they're in some sort of aquarium, staring into the gaping mouth of Jaws.

Tony braces for something worse. Guns. Yelling. A physical restriction.

Bruce carefully eases them back, out of the prison, fingers tight around the steering wheel. Part of Tony had been expecting further resistance, but there's nothing. No one tries to stop them from leaving or permanently traps them inside the prison.

Still, he doesn't think anyone breathes until they're out of the compound and heading down the lonely dirt road back to where they left the Quinjet an hour ago.

Tony squeezes the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly. "Shit," he mutters. "That was amazing. Shit."

Bruce shifts uncomfortably in the corner of his eye, lips pushed together so tightly it looks physically painful.

No one says anything for a long few minutes until Clint, with more hesitation than Tony thinks is necessary asks, "What's going on?" he won't look directly at either of them, gaze pinned on the rear-view mirror, staring at himself. Any time he looks out the window he flinches. "The director gave me clearance...why?"

Tony exhales, long and hard. "Yeah. Um. About that, apparently, there's this thing going on with the Raft—"

Clint's eyes narrow, then close, inexplicably tired and resigned. He interrupts before Tony has barely gotten started, "This has to do with Loki, doesn't it?"

Tony winces, biting on the edge of his tongue, suspended in an explanation he really doesn't want to give. "We're not sure, but probably," he admits when it doesn't look like Bruce is going to do much more than anxiously watch the road. "The Raft malfunctioned this morning, apparently there was some sort of blackout. Fury was alerted to it. No one knows what's going on. Loki is still there as far as we know, but we don't have a visual into his cell."

Clint clenches a hand in the fabric of his gray pants. "It's been months since Asgard left him there and there haven't been any problems. Why now?"

What I would give to know that.

"We don't know," Tony admits with reluctance. "Fury assembled the team. I guess he wants us to play human shield for him."

Clint scowls, looking out the window, wincing, then drawing his gaze to the floor. "Of course he does. When doesn't he?" the words are strangely bitter. Tony doesn't know what to say to it, chewing on the inside of his cheek awkwardly, lost. The archer sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why am I here? Honestly? I wasn't considered for the Avengers Initiative in the first place."

True, but Tony was scrapped off the list after Romanov gave her report, so apparently the list is shit at this point.

"Fury wanted you here," Bruce answers before Tony can say anything. "He was insistent."

Clint huffs, pulling his lower lip against his teeth and looking down at the floor again with a blank expression. His thumb rubs slowly over the mangled scar on his forearm. There's another pause before Clint asks, "Where is everyone else?"

"Romanov swung by New York to pick up Cap," Tony explains. "Thor is already at the Raft with Fury. I guess they're keeping an eye on things? I don't know."

Clint looks up at him harshly, making eye contact, albeit via the mirror, for the first time since Tony saw him. "Natasha is there?"

"Yep."

"Damn it," Clint mutters, frustrated, and sighs heavily. "Of course she is."

"She and Fury responded first to the scene," Tony admits. Then he scrapes a hand through messy hair before saying slowly, "Barton, look...I-I swear that we were trying to get you out, okay? You didn't deserve to be there. The WSC is a bunch of assholes. It was a mistake we—"

"Don't." Clint interrupts, tone severe. He closes his eyes, breathing out slower. A fraction calmer, he appends, "Just don't, okay? Fury had clearance to get me out the whole time, didn't he? Apparently, I was right where he wanted me."

The words are splenetic. Tony doesn't fight them. He doesn't know what to say and honestly, part of him wonders if Clint is right.

000o000

The rest of the drive is taken in mostly silence. Clint has a few other questions about the mission, but neither Tony or Bruce have much that they can tell him. They don't know. Fury's briefing wasn't overly detailed beyond that they needed to get Barton out of jail ASAP and meet him on the Raft. They haven't gotten any updates since then.

When they make it to the Quinjet, Tony is glad for the opportunity to pilot because it gives him something else to focus on. He watches from the corner of his eye as Bruce hands Clint a jacket the archer doesn't even ask questions about, just pulls around himself and seems glad for the warmth. Despite the fact that they're in Wyoming. And the temperature is triple digits.

Bruce fiddles with his fingers until it seems like he's going to rip them off and takes a seat on the bench across from Clint.

Tony slowly eases the plane into the air after a halfhearted "buckle up, children."

Things don't really get better from there. The flight is long and slightly awkward, but beyond a few attempts at small talk here and there, it's taken in total silence. Part of Tony is a little relieved by this. As much as he wishes there was something to fill the silence, he's grateful not to have to talk. He doesn't have anything productive to say and doesn't want to try.

However, the further the flight drags out, the worse that he starts to feel. His hands are faintly shaking with fatigue by the time Tony can see the Raft in the distance. His lack of sleep and only eating the coffee he drained this morning in the last few days are beginning to catch up with him. Badly. In an effort not to crash the 'Jet into the middle of the ocean, Tony gives the controls to Jarvis and buries his head in his hands, breathing deeply.

His eyelids ache. Every muscle in his body feels like it's twisted up and stretched in the wrong way.

"Did General Ross call a state of emergency?" Clint asks.

Tony squints, then looks up, spinning the chair around to look at him. "What?"

Bruce looks up at him sharply, agitation beginning to build upon his face. Tony barely represses a wince. Bruce needed to be told at some point what was happening. Like the coward he is at heart, Tony really, really didn't want to be the one to tell him.

"Did he call a state of emergency? About the problem?" Clint repeats.

"...No." Tony admits after a moment, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Bruce's piercing one. "Fury kinda made it seem like he practically had to fight tooth and nail to even check it out. Whatever the hell is going on, I guess the good general doesn't want his reputation to be tainted in the process."

"That's reassuring," Clint says dryly.

"Ha."

"You knew?" Bruce's voice is quiet. He's staring at the crease between the wall and the ceiling, fists clenched over his knees. "That Ross was going to be here?" Unspoken, but just as loud, is a why didn't you tell me? Tony closes his eyes, wishing for a moment that this was all someone else's problem. That he could have continued to work in his lab this morning, oblivious to anything except how much he wanted to sleep but couldn't, downing a bitter coffee.

The reality, as it always is, is far less kind.

"I did," Tony admits.

Bruce clenches his jaw and looks away, beginning to twist his fingers again.

Clint looks between the two of them, that same exhausted frustration settling on his face again. "You and Ross have a history?" he asks, talking to Bruce.

The chemist huffs darkly. "You could say that. Yeah." He offers no further details, scowling into the floor. Clint looks away from him, mouthing a silent okay then. Tony rubs a hand against his forehead, praying for today to be over quickly.

Jarvis lands the plane less than five minutes later on the Raft and Tony forces himself up to his feet. The world blends into a kaleidoscope of painful colors before settling, which is kinda not great, historically. He doesn't have time to sit here and sleep. Or eat. Or whatever the hell he didn't do that his body is unhappy about now.

As Clint and Bruce unbuckle themselves, Tony gets to unsteady feet and walks over to one of the overhead bins.

Flipping it open, he drags out Mark X, compressed into briefcase form. It's heavy and the handle is a little uncomfortable as it bends his wrist weird, but Tony grips onto it like his life depends on it. It might, honestly. Who knows what the hell is going to happen.

After a hesitation, Tony reaches up and pulls the other item out. He'd been working on it for a few months, mostly out of guilt, like this would be a peace offering to absolve the prison sentence. The bow is sleek and compressible, the best technology that Tony could manage to scourge up added to it. The quiver, able to hold fifty arrows instead of twenty, is heavy.

Tony holds it out to Clint. "Here. Romanov said you'd probably need this."

"Oh. Thanks." Some of the hard edges of the archer's face ease at the sight of the weapon, his expression clearing. He reaches out and takes the items from Tony, running his fingers over the edge of some of the arrows. He looks up at Tony. "This isn't S.H.I.E.L.D. tech."

"It's mine," Tony admits.

Clint stares at him oddly, and Tony looks away before he can say anything about that. Adjusting his grip on Mark X and pulling his jacket tighter around himself, Tony glances a look between a no longer as angry, but deeply apprehensive Bruce and an archer who looks ready to pass out. They are really bringing their A-game today.

Tony bites on his cheek before walking forward and slamming a hand down on the button next to the door to open it. The ramp lowers slowly with a groan of metal and Tony is immediately hit in the face with a blast of freezing, wet air.

"Wow, it is much colder than they told me it was going to be," Tony exclaims before beginning to walk down the ramp. He really wishes he had brought a coat. Jarvis said to do so, but Tony ignored him in favor of it's in the middle of the ocean, how bad can it be? And his arrogance will be his fatal flaw. He will die here, frozen because he didn't take a warm enough jacket.

He hears the archer and gamma scientist following after him.

There isn't a storm, but there are clouds, with plenty of wind to make up for it. Large waves are crashing against the edges of the Raft, spraying spittles of water all across the large deck. The Raft's dark coloring reminds Tony of a road, but it's not made of asphalt, instead reinforced steel and some sort of concrete. He's not completely sure. He hasn't seen the exact schematics for it.

Staring out at the vast, angry ocean around them, Tony is struck with the impression of being small. There's nothing around them for miles, not even a lonely light from a single boat cursed to this ungodly ocean. That is, Tony supposes, what you get for putting a prison in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.

General Ross is waiting for them, flanked by a dozen guards with helmets covering their faces and armed to the teeth. They look impassive against the crashing waves like they can bend the ocean to their will and have no reason to fear it. The General's nose is bright red on top of a layered, angry scowl.

Tony looks away from him where a helicopter is resting, dormant. With that comes a brief twist of relief in his stomach at the sight of the remaining Avengers.

Thor is standing beside Cap, both men engaging in painful small talk if the looks on their faces are anything to go by. The Asgardian prince is in his armor, minus the cape, his hammer clenched in one tight fist. His hair is soaked and plastered against his neck despite the braid it's somewhat drawn back into.

Steve is in his S.H.I.E.L.D. armor, his shield strapped to his back and arms folded across his chest. The way he's holding himself is tense, but beside him, Thor honestly doesn't appear much calmer.

A little off from the two of them are Fury and Natasha. The Director is gripping the edge of his coat with both hands—one of his few outward nervous tics—as it blows in the wind, seeming completely unfazed by the cold. Like a champion. Natasha, looking tired, has her suit zipped up to her neck, making full use of the collar it provides. Her short hair is soaked and flowing around her face and into her eyes. From what he can tell, she gave up on trying to keep it out of her face a while ago.

Her gaze, as Tony half expected, is immediately on Clint as soon as they're visible. What is a little surprising is the way that her entire body seems to unclench at his presence, as though even the very sight of him makes her feel safe. Tony sees Clint do something similar beside him, and though the Widow takes a half step forward, they don't get any closer.

"Took you long enough," Fury says with impatience as he reaches them, his eye narrowed, "what'd you do, stop for coffee?"

"And fries." Tony quips. "They were delicious."

"Hilarious," Fury says dryly. Because Tony is looking for it, he watches as Fury's gaze slides toward Clint for a moment, a glimmer of relief and despair overcoming him at the sight of the man. Clint looks worse standing out here in the storm, like a pale ghost flickering in and out of sight.

"What's the situation?" Clint asks, his voice clipped. He's staring at a spot just next to Fury's head, his fingers clenched around the bow.

"We don't know," Steve says. His face is tinged with slight frustration instead its usual apathy or annoyance. "General Ross refused to give us any access to the base until you arrived despite the fact we were here ten minutes ago."

Tony's eyebrows raise and he, and everyone else, turns to stare at the General pointedly. Ross sputters. "I asked you to wait because we don't know what's happened," Ross spits, flailing a hand. "And it would be best to wait until we have the proper backup. If you want to get yourself killed then—What the hell is that thing doing in my prison!?"

General Ross waves one pointed, angry finger just behind Tony, where Bruce has taken a half step toward him. Bruce freezes beneath the stare of the man like he's been pinned beneath the sight line of a dozen guns. Bruce makes a faint wheezing sound, and Tony is once again reminded about how bad of an idea putting the two within a hundred-yard radius was.

Tony bristles. "He's not a thing, you bastard—" he starts to say, furious, as Steve says loud and pointed, "the Director asked for all of the Avengers, sir. That includes Dr. Banner" which is probably the nicer way to go about it. Not that Tony really gives a crap about being nice.

"I didn't!" General Ross snaps, his voice beginning to rise, "And I have never considered him or the-the-the thing to be a part of your little vigilante group!"

Bruce shrinks backward and Tony feels his expression darken.

"Maybe I should just—" Bruce starts to say softly, but is cut off.

"With all due respect, sir," Steve says, in a tone that is both placid, careful, and somehow suggests that the due respect is none, "Bruce and Hulk are both Avengers."

"But—!" Ross starts again, his mustache bristling. Fury shoots him a glare.

"Save your breath, Thaddeus," Fury commands, "we're not here to pass judgment about who should and shouldn't be on the team. We're here because the Raft is dead weight beneath us and I would like to know why. Yet despite this, you didn't see it fit to call for help when you were explicitly instructed to do so if this ever happened."

Ross' mouth opens and closes twice before he exhales. With clear effort, he pulls his icy stare away from Bruce. "We don't need your help. Everything is under control. That's why we didn't call, and what I've been trying to tell you since you got here. Nothing is wrong."

"The Raft is offline and you call that fine?" Fury questions.

Ross draws himself up. "It's functional. The EMP blast knocked out most of our generators, but the secondary backups have kept everything running. No one is getting out. I told you— what are you doing, stop!"

Fury continues walking toward the entrance as if Ross didn't say anything, clearly done with the man's shit. "If everything is fine, you won't mind us taking a look around then, will you?"

Ross pales. "No. That's not a good idea."

Like he's addressing a five-year-old, Fury asks, "And why is that?"

Ross' mouth goes up and down again before, with a wild movement, he points an accusing finger at Thor. "His brother is trying to escape."

Tony had been expecting this. Fury had. Everyone had. And yet, hearing the words come out of Ross' mouth is something else entirely. His stomach clenches up and lurches all at once, leaving him with a vague sense of nausea and a twisting ache of cramps.

Loki.

Out here. Again. Wreaking havoc. Dragging aliens into the city, opening the portal, the void—Tony cuts off the line of thought rapidly, stuffing it down into a box and then into a chest and a vault and locking that up until it's nothing more than a faint, rumbling thought at the back of his mind.

"The Raft went offline five hours ago," Fury says angrily, his jaw clenching, "and it didn't occur to you to ask for assistance once in that time?"

Ross huffs, clearly offended, "Like I said, we had it handled. I have twenty men stationed outside his cell and he's made no move to leave since he released the EMP hours ago. He's not going anywhere. There's no reason for you to be here—"

As if solely to prove him wrong, the Raft rocks violently to the side, and Tony staggers, barely managing to keep upright. To his left, Clint goes tumbling to his knees and Steve's elbow rams hard into the Helicopter. There's a loud grinding of metal as the Quinjet and the chopper both scratch their way several inches, unbalanced. Beneath his feet, Tony can feel the metal rumbling and vibrating.

When it's over, it leaves a worse, sour feeling in his chest.

He looks up sharply, panting. That wasn't a wave. Or the beginning of a storm. That came from inside the Raft.

Holy shit.

Loki.

They all draw their weapons, Thor taking a step forward, outstretching Mjolnir like it's some sort of pointer not a weapon of mass destruction at Ross. His next words are harsh, "Swallow your pride if you're capable, mortal, and show us where my brother is located. Now."

The beginnings of actual anxiety are beginning to show on the General's face. It's still a long hesitation as if the man is at war with himself before he grinds his teeth against each other and nods. " Fine. Follow me."

Author's Note:

Next chapter: September? Probably. Check weekends. I update on the weekends. If you are comfortable with it, I would love to hear your thoughts. Until next chapter.