dreamsofpoison | for halfassed

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for halfassed

Just how and why Loki was back on Earth was a mystery. There had been no communication from Thor any Asgardian representatives. It wasn't obvious that Loki was back, in fact, his presence could have gone unnoticed if not for, well, mischief.

He'd somehow taken something belonging to one Clint Barton. Something very dear to him. His bow. Said bow now sat on a mantel above the fireplace in his current residence. It was a stone and log cabin. Lodge would be a more appropriate description. Logs make up A frame structures to support the roof. They also provide an excellent place to suspend someone from. Which inevitably happened when Barton followed the little trail of bread crumbs to find his bow and ultimately, Loki.

He's suspended near the fireplace, which is lit. Turned so he can see his bow sitting there on the mantel. He's hung high enough his toes barely brush the ground and apparently Loki took great care in securing his wrists in a specific type of cuff. The kind that would ensure he could keep him there for quite some time without much damage to his hands or wrists. He was stripped of his weapons and all his clothes save for his pants. Hence why he choose the beam close to the fire. It was the dead of winter outside.

As for Loki himself, he stood by the window, watching the snow fall and waiting for the subtle signs his captive has awoken. He's far removed from the armor and leather of before. Instead he's in simple mortal clothes but they still had a certain Loki-esque flair to them.

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Loki relaxes like he's preparing for it. You know, all that pride he has to get around to even get close to apologizing sincerely. Oh, it probably won't be sincere even then.

Ah, well. He sighs and starts to speak, "I really am--" Now is an excellent time to remember his throwing knife. He curls his fingers around it and stabs him in the torso. It's short enough he shouldn't nick anything major. Maybe.

"--deeply sorry." Which ends in a growl.

Clint shoves Loki brutally and viciously against the wall, yanks the knife out and presses it to Loki's throat.

"You always gotta take it just a little too far, don't you?"

And he tries to slit Loki's throat. Weakened, his arm still wounded, and bleeding out through his ribs. He knows it's probably a futile effort.

The shove stuns him momentarily. A painful reminder of his current state. He shoots his hand up just barely in time to prevent his throat being cut open. He gets nicked though. He tries to pry the knife away from him. His other hand goes to the wound to help stem the flow of blood.

"I do regret his death," he admits in a consoling voice. He shouldn't have killed him, he should have taken control of him instead. The one human he never should have underestimated.

"Fuck you." He struggles, tries to hurt Loki, if he can, but he falls to his knees. Shit. He needs treatment. A stomach wound could easily kill him, in the next ten minutes.

He gives a short humorless laugh. When he falls to his knees, he rests a hand on Clint's head in an almost affectionate way.

"You will not be joining him," he says in the same consoling voice. He holds there for a moment then steps away. Really, he will run out of his 'magic healing stuff' at this rate. He only has what he has after Thor argued the point to the Allfather.

Unfortunately, he can't just use mortal first-aid on this injury. He reopens the box and takes a series of packets. He returns to him and tries to push him on his back so he can work on the wound. "How many hours might your life be worth?" he asks, half mocking. He could hold it over him and make him promise all sorts of things for his life. That... should have been a more satisfying thought. It isn't and he's already started sprinkling the stuff on the wound.

Driven speechless, at this point. Not just because of the injury, but because of Loki. Damn it, god damn it, he hadn't meant to be this vulnerable in front of him. He hadn't meant to give his life back to Loki. Instead, it seems like he's Loki's punching bag again. Shot and stabbed, all in the first ten minutes.

"Not enough for you," he mururs, and he turns his head away, closing his eyes. Not unconscious, not even in danger of going unconscious, but not willing to watch Loki treat him. It's enough feeling him, gracious and sure hands on Clint's skin, the wound that starts to heal over.

Another chuckle. Loki finishes his work shortly then smooths over the area with his finger. He silently vows that he'll be saving the rest of the supplies for himself.

But if he could convince him to aid him. Help keep him alive until he regains his powers. That would prove challenging.

He recovers his breath. Loki's hit a couple of the spots of tension he needs to draw a bow. He's going to be off his game until the muscles heal.

"I'm not your dog," he says. "Won't come at your whistle anymore." He doesn't know if he savors that or regrets it. Either way, it hurts. He's wounded in more ways than one. He sips in a pained breath, and opens his eyes, fixing them on Loki. Not a spark of blue in them. They're not caught in the Tesseract's thrall.

He reaches up and flattens a hand against Loki's shoulder. "I wish I'd never laid eyes on you."

"Won't you?" Loki responds in a rhetorical sort of way. After all Clint did show up after he took his bow. Sure, Loki ensured it but he did have the option not to come at all and just ignore the theft. Or tell SHIELD.

He blinks, surprised he's being touched at all. He was expecting another punch to the face, honestly. "Are you expecting me to say the same?"

Yes, but -- that was part of a plan. That doesn't count.

Right?

"No," says Clint. "Cause I might be the only guy you've ever trusted." Which is a pretty sad life, come to think of it. How many centuries of it, spent being a manipulative, cagey asshole? But he trusted Clint. Relied on him. There's more there than meets the eye.

His hand is stiff. He's keeping Loki a certain distance away.

Oh that wins a cold hard glare. True enough as it may be. He had been the most useful and reliable asset. His expression sours and he pushes his hand off him. He doesn't need anyone's help to survive this punishment. This was a test and distraction and no longer fun.

He gets up, picks up the bow and tosses it at him. He's not foolish enough to give him any arrows. He may be wounded but he could still manage a shot.

He catches it. Muscles of his belly on fire with pain, still, but he's not bleeding anymore. He'll survive.

"If you reactivate any of the old networks, I'll know," he says. "Watch your step, or you might end up bleeding a lot more before this is done."

He's fully planning to leave.

A little chuckle despite his abrupt change in mood. "I already have. Where do you think this place came from?" he says simply. It could be lie, half-lie or the truth.

"We are approximately eighty miles from what passes for civilization. Try not to get lost in a blizzard on the way out."

It's true the weather is nasty outside. Cold, snowy and pretty uninviting. The real reason Loki wanted to keep his clothes wasn't for humiliation. And if Barton is intent on leaving he'll find two snowmobiles outside. One doesn't appear to be working while the other is in perfect condition but lacking keys.

"And how do you think I got here?"

He keeps an eye on the resources he and Loki used, during that whole ordeal. They're still there, dormant, waiting. Connections that could be hooked up again. That's the way Clint sees the world: connections, just waiting to be made. Tasks, just waiting to be carried out.

He takes a coat and steps right on outside. Tries both the snowmobiles, takes a look at what they'd need to be fixed, and curses, quietly, to himself. Don't mind him, he'll be attempting to hotwire the second one until his fingers go numb.

And then, maybe, he'll come back inside.

Loki is just gonna hang out inside with the fire and all the food and probably the keys. Don't mind him. He's just chilling.

Actually, he's not hanging around that close to the fire. He tolerates the cold very well, even striped of his powers. He's not idle, there's quite a bit of blood to clean up. Oh he wishes for his magic. He could just wave a hand and it would be clean. He had plans to spend a day or two more here before moving on. It was clear Barton wasn't going to bring SHIELD down on him right away.

Back inside, jacket off -- if he sweats in here, it'll turn into hypothermia later -- and he establishes a search grid throughout the house. Very methodically searching along each wall, moving a meter into the room on each pass. He won't miss a thing.

He might leave a mess, though.

Loki finished what he was doing and there are two things he won't let Clint get near in his search. Loki himself and the quiver of arrows. It's an obvious reason with the arrows, well and himself.

He stays out of his way and doesn't hinder the search in any way. He does glower about the mess though.

After a few rooms, Clint catches on, and he turns to Loki, hands on his hips.

"Okay," he says. "Strip down." It's gotta be on Loki.

His eyebrows raise up like he hasn't the faintest idea what he's talking about.

"No," he says simply. He likes it here in his comfy chair.

Then he's going to go right around that chair and tip it forward, dumping Loki on the floor. Take that, asshole.

Well, that's a good way to piss Loki off. He tries to grab Clint's arm, the one that was wounded to dig his thumb into it. "How dare you," He says in a low hiss, "Leave."

"I'm trying." He hauls Loki back to his feet, in an attempt to break the grip. "Give me the damn key, and I'll be out of your hair."

"I do not have it," he hisses, angered. He doesn't seem to keen on breaking his grip though he does, only after he's sure he's made him hurt. Even just a little.

"Just like you don't have Coulson's life, to give back," he snaps. Not a damn bit of logical sense, but he's so angry, he's hurting, he's a wounded raptor who's more dangerous desperate than healthy. "I want the chances you took from me. I want to go back to being a god damn innocent in your games." He would give anything, anything at all, just to be ignorant. Just to never know again what he's missing. He hadn't been happy, but, really, who is? He'd been surviving, and now he isn't, and that's all that matters.

"Then take them you, you insolent sparrow!" he growls then tries to pull away from him violently, despite the form of invitation.

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