Author's Note:

This is a Clint Barton aka Hawkeye/Loki fic. I'm really interested in the idea of what Clint's time as Loki's brain-washed pet was like. This is just an exploration of the whole thing. I'm not sure where it'll go. Very much inspired by Erebusodora's drawings. ( post/9305235845/its-already-late-night-here-and-disturbing-news)


There's that ghost of a smile. A cruel smile on thin lips, pained lips, drawn narrow like a pencil gash on paper that split right through. Deep, but grey and thin and hard.

The fall of dark hair onto dark shoulders. Relaxed lines like strokes of paint. Black as dense fabric, but soft, marring the sharp angles and lines of the pale face. Framing, blurring edges and boundaries and deceiving.

His fingers and his hands, elegant like a pianists. Fragile as if they could be snapped, one by one from holding to hard to an idea. Subtle fingers, that rest fleetingly on a firmly muscled shoulder. Cold fingers that press into a tautly muscled forearm. With nails that dig in to leave little crescent shaped reminders.

His white skin. It took all the poetic words Clint didn't even knew he knew. That even cheek- stone face- haunted his dreams, with its marble hard lines of alabaster and ice. On closer inspection, observance, (that forced blank eyed stare) it wasn't as smooth as fresh snow or as hyper real and as ghostly. Even Gods have worry lines. Age lines. Laughter lines.

What did he have to laugh about? In Clint's dreams he often laughed, with a voice as light as wind and as cold and hard as hail one second, and as tender as a lovers whisper the next. His voice was like that. Silver, liquid metal; it appeared as cold as frost but burnt with a white hot heat.

Then there were his green eyes, as clear and holding so much promise of pain, and burning with knowledge that he has no right- damn him- no right to have. Those green eyes hold Clint's gaze and won't let him look away, until Clint sees through the bottle green glass to the poison inside, not poison waiting to kill, but poison administered long ago by others. He thinks, with this terror of someone who can't control his thoughts, that Loki is hurting and he is frightened.

Clint sees that Loki is scared.

That was when the dream ended, like all good dreams, with Clint's own death that jerked him swearing and shaking in cold sweat (cold like Loki's skin) back to his darkened bedroom and tangled sheets. The physical memory of cold steel searing through abdominal muscles and Loki's feral snarl still hovered in front of his vision. A twisted face filled with so much hate, hate to disguise fear. A mask of hatred is such an apt phrase.

Clint was always disgusted at the way Loki reads his thoughts. Before he evens knows what they are himself. Clint was also always disgusted with himself for having pitied the- man?

The monster.

Loki.

Loki.

Damn him!

Clint swung his legs out of bed and curled forwards, hunched up as if to protect himself from flying shrapnel, from bullets, like you do after a fall, with your hands curled into the back of your neck, into that space between your skull and your spine. He stayed like that, still, quiet, for a few minutes, eyes open to cast away the image his face just hovering beyond the tangible. But because he couldn't quite grasp it, he couldn't get rid of it either.

The alarm clock ticked loudly in the muffled darkness.

These long nights were getting to Clint.

The memory of Loki smiled.