Archive of Our Own

1.
Clint doesn’t remember much about how he got to Asgard—what he assumes is Asgard. There are flashes, chains and a tree and Loki, pallid, eyes dull. And a smirk. That damned insufferable, superior smirk.

And the pain as the god pushes into him, claiming him as he did back when he was under his spell. There was no preparation, no attempt at mutual satisfaction. Just a raw fuck, as if he were a piece of meat to be used.

To Loki, that’s probably exactly what he is.

He wakes up the next day on a stone floor, once more in his uniform with no sign of the night’s events, save for the pain in his ass and the pull of his muscles. There are bruises on his arms, and he can feel a scab on his neck in the shape of teeth. He groans, and rolls onto his back to take in his surroundings.

It’s medieval; a room in a stone castle, or more likely a Viking keep. It’s basic, a bed with furs, a battle-scarred table, a pristine mirror. The windows are slits, barely wide enough to slide an arm through, and no door except the one that leads to a balcony.

He refuses to crawl his way outside—he may have surrendered to Loki but by damn he has some dignity—so he stumbles through the door to the narrow landing. He’s four, five stories up in a tower overlooking an archery range and a sickly looking grove surrounded by a wall. There’s also a tree with gnarled roots and a thick trunk reaching skyward, beyond Clint’s view.

He scowls at the overcast sky, refusing to jump at the angry thunder. There’s no lightning, which pisses him off because what sort of prison for Loki doesn’t have Thor’s signature? Isn’t gloating over your enemies a part of a Norse pride?

Then again, Clint wouldn’t torture Barney that way, so maybe he’s being a little vindictive.

He breathes in the ozone-tainted air. It’s cold enough to make his skin prickle but not shiver. This is an Asgard prison. Clint’s broken into more secure corporate buildings. There isn’t even any security; no guards, no great beasts roaming around. Just a tower and a wall that he’s pretty sure he can scale.

No wonder Loki could escape his confinement and get to Earth.

Well, damned if he’s going to stay here. He gave himself to the god, submitted, but he never said he’d share a prison sentence with the guy. He lets himself rest a few more minutes to give his body a chance to heal further. Even with alien blood, it’s taking time to recover from Loki’s actions.

He ignores the part of his soul that lingers on his surrender; that admits he’s owned by Loki. That part of him is shattered and longs for his master, the warmth and utter acceptance from his god. It wants to yield to Loki with no doubts, no qualms, and fights against his desire to escape.

He spits over the edge of the balcony, loathing that part of him. It was his own weakness and Loki’s words that stopped making him resist the other night. And as broken as he is now, he’s still an Avenger. Loki can have what he’s taken of Clint’s soul. Payment rendered.

He vowed to belong, not to serve.

Hissing at the burning of his muscles, Clint steps onto the handrail and clings to the minute grips he can find of the tower’s stones. He could float down, but using his powers might alert Loki, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. As surfaces go, he’s climbed worse, and the scrapes along his arms, his face, keep him focused, put him in the mindset of a SHIELD mission. All he needs is Coulson in his ear and Natasha watching his back to feel like another day at work.

He dangles once or twice, and it takes a good hour before he can reach the wall—damned wide tower—and land with a grunt. He immediately spins on his heel to look at the land beyond the prison. The ground is dead, made of hard dirt and rocks with no sign of water or plant life. Well, he’s survived ten days in the desert on his own urine before. This should be a cakewalk.

He leaps over the edge of the wall and clings to it, his feet sliding for purchase. “Aw, fuck no.” The wall, unfortunately, is smooth. There’s absolutely nothing for him to gain purchase on. Grinding his teeth, he tries to pull himself back up, only for his shooting arm to spasm and make him knock his head against the wall. “God damned-“

“Having trouble, my Hawk?”

Clint grimaces and looks up. Loki is sitting by his hands, staring down at him. So much for keeping a low profile. “Just checking out the land,” he says a little roughly, internally wincing. He meant for it to sound more sarcastic, less frightened. Damn it. He’s got to get back on his game. “Not really a fan of confined spaces.” There, that’s a little more normal.

Loki just raises an eyebrow at him. “And after I’d made your accommodations so welcoming.”

He tries to shrug, which is just awkward, but he’s pretty sure his point gets across. “Prison’s a prison.”

“Yes,” the lightness to the tone vanishes. “I know.” His eyes begin to burn red.

“That’s a new look,” Clint can’t help but mutter.

Loki ignores it. “Do you think I enjoy this desolate, limited cell my father,” he spits the word as an epithet, “put me in?”

“You escaped.” And so can I, he adds silently. “Why come back?”

“You think I have a choice,” he hisses. His nails scratch over Clint’s hands, before digging in behind the knuckles, drawing blood. “I don’t. And neither do you. You’re mine, Hawkeye!”

Clint makes sure to look the god directly in the eye. “Yeah. You know, I was sort of thinking, fuck that.” He shoves back and wills himself to glide down, to land dozens of feet from the wall and as far from Loki as he can.

Instead, he crashes into a wooden table, and he knows his back will be bruised in the morning. Hell, he’s been transported to his room, and he slams his fist to the floor. He hasn’t even begun to seethe before Loki is on him, pinning him down with a snarl.

“You want to fight me, my warrior?” A dagger appears in a puff of dark smoke in Loki’s hand. “You can’t!” He slams the blade through Clint’s wrist into the floor.

Clint doesn’t scream, just bites his tongue. The second dagger in his other arm does pull a cry from him. “You belong to me,” he repeats, swinging around to thrust a sword through each leg, straight through the shinbone and into the stone. “And if you have to bleed to learn that lesson, so be it!”

Clint is panting through his mouth, staring at the way his blood is pooling by his face. He deliberately looks over Loki’s shoulder when the god squats before him, grabbing his chin. His grip is bone shattering as he breaks Clint’s jaw, fingers blue and freezing. “You want a prison, Barton,” the first time he’s heard Loki use his name, “you can have it!”

And then Clint’s alone.

The blades keep him pinned. He struggles for hours, maybe days, but he can’t budge them. His jaw heals slowly, but the swords ensure his blood continues to drain into the floor’s crevasses. He goes through every mental exercise SHIELD taught him; reviews the history of archery, his favorite bows, his entire life. Three times. It’s the only distraction he has over the month as he starves, never dying, but somehow surviving.

You brought this on yourself, Clint. You belong to him, part of his heart says.

He ignores that voice for another two weeks.

Then he begins begging Loki for forgiveness.

2.
It feels like months, maybe even a year, before Clint gets his next chance to escape. He knows not to try again within the tower. After that first attempt… No. It’s just not worth it. If he’s going to free himself from this hell, he’s going to need Loki off-guard, make the god think he’s won.

It’s not nearly as hard as it should be. It disturbs him how much a part of him wants his praise, positively glows each time Loki strokes his hair or murmurs in his ear or watches him get off to the glow of candles.

There will never be enough showers to scrub that feeling away.

Clint just swallows and lets his resistance burn in his chest like Tony’s arc reactor. He’ll need that repressed emotion one day. And when that day comes, there won’t be a deity in Asgard that will save Loki from his wrath. It’s a thought that keeps him warmer than the furs on his bed.

He’s encouraged to play with Hrotti eventually, to retrain himself, to be Loki’s Hawk once more. He doesn’t let a single arrow fly towards the god. He hates being here, but he loves this weapon. He knows it’d perfect for whoever Loki chose, but he doesn’t care. It’s still the most beautiful thing in this prison, and using such a precise extension of himself is the only thing that keeps him from screaming some days.

He’s pretty sure Loki sees the hate in his eyes on those occasions. He always wears his ‘I am your king’ smirk and makes sure to run his hands all down Clint’s body in the evening, whispering in a Norse tongue between peppered kisses.

Not enough showers. Ever.

And if there’s a part of his heart that beats traitor, traitor, traitor at his disgust, he tells it to shove off.

The summons from Odin comes with two things. The first is a new uniform, made of silent leather from the hides of frost giants. It’s exactly like his SHIELD one in every other way, though, down to the cargo pockets for him to hide extra daggers. He can feel a restrained energy in the outfit, and recalling Thor and Loki’s warrior garb, figures it’s something like that.

The better to slay a god with.

The second thing is an opportunity to see Thor. Apparently it’s a family dinner along with some entertainment. From the sounds of it, either animal sacrifice or gladiator fights will be involved. Either way, he can easily predict Loki will keep him on a short leash, no matter how submissive he acts. He’s slipped from the hands of other handlers before, but he’s pretty sure it won’t be quite as easy as removing his ear comm this time. No matter. He’s good at thinking on the fly. He’ll see how Thor plays it first.

They’re transported without notice directly outside the feasting hall. As Clint walks in he lets out a low whistle at the towering walls and endless tables and row upon row of Norse deities. The food and drink are piled high on every table, slaughtered animals and loaves of bread and his mouth waters, just a little. All he’s had since he’s arrived is semi-rotted fruit from the orchid. He could get used to this.

He opens his mouth without thinking. “Geeze, you just had to piss off your old man enough to keep a lock on the fridge.” The slap across his head jars his brain, but Loki doesn’t seem too angry. Clint’s acted his part well, but he’s made sure to keep his attitude. At times, it even seems to amuse his master.

Not master. God damnit, NOT master. He mentally kicks himself at the slip.

It’s at that moment Thor takes notice and stands abruptly. “Hawkeye!” It echoes around the room, and all other noise ceases. “You will release his mind immediately, brother!”

“He belongs to me,” Loki responds smoothly. “He gave himself willingly, bound his soul to mine. The siedr pact is unbreakable.”

Thor raises his hammer as well as his voice. “His word was given under the control of the Tesseract. Your pact has no standing!” Without lowering his weapon, Thor turns to Odin. “Father, you must free the mortal Clint Barton of Loki’s control! His friends mourn and worry for their beloved shield brother.”

Loki smirks, standing taller. “I see no mortal here. My chosen Hawk is an Alfar.”

Thor yells something in Norse that doesn’t translate. Clint’s willing to bet it’s bluer than anything a sailor in Bangkok could think up. He tries to keep his gaze off Thor in case Loki is watching, which means he ends up locking eyes—well, eye—with Odin himself.

Clint doesn’t let it faze him too much. He’s been on the receiving end of Fury’s glare. The All-Father’s look is just as penetrating, stripping him down to the core and judging him on…whatever the fuck men like Odin and Fury judge on.

And if he feels himself being unmade a bit, well, third time’s the charm, or something.

After a minute, Odin turns away, and Clint brings himself back to the hall, to the events going on. He sees Thor is about two seconds from charging over the table to wring Loki’s neck, and probably carry Clint back to Midgard over his shoulder if necessary. There’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to talk to him tonight. There’s too much attention on the three of them.

He wasn’t Coulson’s best asset for nothing, though.

If he can’t speak with Thor, he can definitely give him something to bring back to the Avengers. Tony’s a genius, and Banner’s already got time in on studying Asgard relics. With luck, it’ll be just what they need to find him and bring him home.

As Thor starts swinging his hammer, Clint summons Hrotti and lets three arrows fly across the room. Two land directly in front of Thor, embedded in the table. The third he aims to just clip the hair to the left of Thor’s head.

Shock is not a good look on Thor’s face, Clint decides.

Loki practically swaggers as he steps closer and places a hand on Clint’s arm. “As I said,” he seems to purr, “the Hawk is mine. Of his own free will.” He trails his hand up the arm and strokes the back of Clint’s hair once, before grabbing it sharply. “My apologies for his eagerness to defend me, father.” No vile undertones with the word this time.

Clint plays his part, lowers the bow and his head, but he keeps looking at Thor through his lashes. Come on, he thinks, you’re smarter than your brother. Figure it out. We were brothers in arms for a year. Please, buddy.

He misses the rest of the exchange, but from the gist of it, Odin’s put Thor in his place regarding him for now. Loki takes his seat then, and Clint moves to join him, when he finds himself in an arena with dozens of other solders and two dozen giant wild boars.

Right. Entertainment. Rolling his shoulders, Clint pulls Loki’s cloak around him and falls into combat readiness.

At the end of the evening he’s bruised and bloody but well fed. He had to lay his head on Loki’s lap and be fed scraps from the table, but the stag meat in Asgard is the most succulent thing he’s ever tasted and he can’t bring it in himself to regret it.

Especially as he’d noticed Thor picking up the table arrows and examining them with an inquisitive gleam in his eye. Loki doesn’t even notice that they’d been tucked into Thor’s belt when the thunder god excused himself from the meal.

Loki is reveling from the events, Clint can tell. Over his shooting at Thor and also at besting all but two warriors in the arena, and maybe even at how subservient he acted in the dining hall. The god’s smile is wide and his hands gentle as he undresses Clint and examines each and every wound he’d received by tusk or blade.

Clint quiets his pride and lets the siedr tainted part of him emerge, making quiet, contented sounds at each touch, each word of praise.

Even if he ends up not rescuing himself, he’s given the Avengers a way to try themselves.

It’s a small victory over Loki, but a victory nonetheless, and it keeps him smiling for days.

3.
“I have a mission for you, my Hawk.”

Clint lets the arrow fly and rolls his shoulders before lowering Hrotti and giving his attention to Loki. It’s been months since the feast, and he didn’t think Stark was that slow, but apparently, his back-up plan for rescue isn’t going to happen any time soon. It’s starting to grate on his nerves, especially since he’s had to keep up the submissive demeanor he started that evening.

Every performer knows how to put on an act, but his is wearing thin, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep from trying to stab Loki in the face.

At least this is different. “A mission,” he looks purposefully around the prison.

Loki smirks at the disbelief in his tone. “Not here. In Alfheimr.”

Which is how Clint discovers the reason he has a full-length mirror is not to look at himself, but to walk through and visit other worlds connected to Asgard. That would’ve been useful information for planning his escape earlier. He fights to grind his teeth as Loki places a gold chain around his neck. It’s cold enough to make him hiss in pain, but he ignores it in favor of the brief history Loki recites for him.

To sum up, he’s not the only mortal the trickster ever elevated. “Most join their brethren beneath the ground,” Loki scowls. “My loyal army, bound to my father’s purpose. He uses my dwarves,” he snarls, “to forge others’ treasures.”

“Wait, I could’ve been a dwarf?” As if the change wasn’t traumatic enough.

The scowl is now on him, and Clint falls to his knees as the chain changes from cooling his skin to igniting his blood. He bites his tongue to keep from screaming, but he can’t help how he falls forward onto his palms when it ends, panting. Feeling Loki’s glare, he swallows the cutting remark and simply says, “Sorry, boss.”

Loki brushes a hand through his hair, and images, faces of people come to focus. “They betrayed me,” he says darkly. “You will execute them.” He backs away and turns to the balcony. “And if you prove yourself, perhaps I will let you hunt more often.”

Clint pushes himself to his feet and, using the near-invisible cloak, steps through the mirror. He kicks back the part of him willing to please Loki and focuses on the goal. Finish the mission, and Loki will let him roam other realms of Asgard. Other parts that may have an easier way to escape, or maybe someone who can help break the bond Loki’s formed.

All he has to do is kill fifty Alfar. He’s not so pleased at that, mostly because if they betrayed Loki, they’re exactly the sort of allies he wants. As he re-enters the world, he tucks that thought away. Maybe he can do something to help them, especially if it means his own freedom in the process.

Alfheimr is a beautiful, bright city of trees and light and green, so much green. Its buildings are made of silver and reflect the sun’s rays everywhere, and even the river shines and burbles with laughter. He takes a moment to admire everything before scaling the nearest tree and looking for his target.

He’s at the edge of the city proper. The mirror deposited him by a small adjoining suburb, and within he can sense all the targets he seeks. He frowns. Naturally, anyone who once worked for Loki would be shunned, even by their own people. Finding allies may not be as easy as he initially thought.

Still, he needs the freedom to move around Asgard. He must have that ability if he has any chance of finally escaping. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters. He has to think of this like a SHIELD mission. Targets, not people.

Targets.

He sees one of them dead on the ground before he realizes it’s his arrow between the man’s eyes. His first kill as Loki’s warrior. The broken part of him sings, desires the call of blood and knows it has pleased its god. It makes him feel warm and proud, makes him want to do it again and again, all in Loki’s name for just the tiniest of praise.

The rotten fruit tastes even worse coming back up.

After he wipes his mouth, he starts running and leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree, felling target after target. Each one makes him giddy, makes him sick.

Over thirty are dead before he moves to the ground and takes out another dozen trying to hide in the houses. His arms are shaking and he wants to fight, wants to reject his orders like he did with Natasha, but if he stops, he’ll lose his chance to escape, lose the trust he’s built up.

An older man finally steps forward with wrinkles around his eyes and his golden hair is swept up tidily, with no sign of a helmet. Unlike the others, he’s armored and bears a sword. He’s number one on Loki’s hit list, and Clint uses every bit of willpower to defy the god’s commands, defy himself. He can’t let this one die. “I’m sorry,” he grinds out. For the attack, the people he’s killed, or for not killing him, he’s not entirely sure.

The warrior stops approaching then, tilts his head. His eyes and mannerisms are a bit like Steve’s, and that just hurts even worse. He hasn’t seen Steve, Bruce, anyone but Thor since he’s been taken, and he didn’t know how much of a loss that was until now, because it physically hurts to see this man.

“I could fight you,” the warrior says slowly, his accent almost Russian, “but you are his, and in that battle, I would not win.”

“I’m not,” his whole body shakes, “his,” he spits.

The warrior—Snorri, his mind supplies—smiles a little then. “In that, then, we are alike.” He puts his sword away.

Fighting a burning desire to shoot, shoot, shoot now; Clint is able to lower Hrotti and relax his grip so the arrow vanishes. His blood tingles, a reminder of the collar he’s wearing. “You freed yourself,” his voice is surprisingly hoarse. “How?”

“If you defy the final binding, you can reject him.” Snorri places a hand over his heart. “Once given and twice bound, but thrice a warrior’s oath must be claimed to be owned by a lord,” he recites. “To defy him still, you must have great spirit.”

That hits too close to home, and the burning he feels in his heart has nothing to do with Loki’s restraint. “Yeah, I’ve been told.” He looks around the suburb, and he can spot eyes peeking out at them. Some belong to children, and he feels his stomach clench. He swallows. “If there were another way…“

“You know you can deceive him. He may own your soul, but your mind is still a cage for which he has no key.”

Clint does snort at that. “I noticed. But something like this-“

“You speak as though we have not gone into hiding before.” Snorri’s smile turns sharp. “You are not the first weapon Loki has used, and though you have been,” he looks over the bodies, “more successful, we have our ways to defend. Alfheimr was a nice haven. Now, we will find another.”

The chain burns again and he sucks in a breath. “You’re not leaving without a fight.”

Snorri nods. “I know.” And then his blade is drawn and Clint has all of a second to pull Hrotti up and block a thrust to his heart. “Fight well, warrior,” he says, laughing. “Your master will want to hear of blood and victory.” He blocks the neck strike, but not the one after that pierces his armor and hits a rib. “Even if it’s of your defeat.”

Clint kicks out, forcing the other Alfar back and pulls out his own sword, a simple one Loki had given him in case he needed it. “Sure don’t pull any punches, do you.” He ignores the wound in his chest, his alien healing already kicking in.

“One of us must be a staunch warrior.” Snorri’s back before him, this time blade to blade. After that it’s a blur, but Clint doesn’t let himself fight as hard as he could, doesn’t try to kill him like he did Natasha on the carrier. This is one of his tickets out of here, and while he can’t take it now, it’s good to have it ready in waiting.

When Snorri lunges again, Clint lets his guard down just enough to be pinned to the ground, sword through his shoulder. “God damned…every fucking time-“

Snorri laugh is quieter this time, dismissive. “I look forward to our next meeting, warrior.”

“Clint,” he offers. “Or Hawkeye.”

“Hawkeye,” he muses around the strange word. “When you are ready, seek me. I will help you as I have others.” And then he’s gone, along with the rest of the suburb.

It takes a good twenty minutes for Clint to pull the sword out of him. Another hour to ensure there’s no one left. He doubts the metal housing can be set aflame, so he just uses the reflective surface of the largest one to limp through.

Loki is waiting for him on the other side, catches him when he trips over the mirror frame itself. As Clint looks up, he grins and silences the part of him that wants to confess his lies and sins. “Taken care of, boss,” he says instead. “Bastards put up a hell of a fight.”

And Loki chuckles, apparently none the wiser. Clint keeps his satisfaction locked away to enjoy later.

4.
Apparently, Snorri knew exactly what he was talking about, as Loki never discovers who on his hit list is dead and who isn’t. He even keeps his promise, letting Clint out to other parts of Asgard—mainly Jotunheim—to hunt other targets as well as animals to spice up their meal options.

It seems a lot of people have pissed off Loki over the years, especially in the realm of the frost giants. After spending five days waiting for a target to emerge from a cave complex, Clint kind of shares his hatred. He’d practically been frozen solid by the damned storm. “If I never see another fucking frosty freak,” he’d muttered upon his return.

Loki had struck him for that, beat him within an inch of his life and never said a word. The part of him loyal to Loki picked up hurt in the god’s glowing gaze. The rest of him just curled up and rode the pain out, letting it reinforce his dream of escape, his desire to kill the creature that had him hostage.

He’s almost completely healed before he remembers Thor’s debrief on Loki, and how he’s really a Jotunn, not Thor’s brother by blood. He would kick himself, except there was satisfaction in seeing the pain on Loki’s face. He acts contrite, stays on his knees and pleads, quietly, into Loki’s stomach.

Inside, he’s smirking, because every issue he uncovers is another weapon in his arsenal. And he knows a pinpoint emotional attack can be just as deadly as an arrow to the eye.

Unfortunately, Loki never removes the chain, never lets him travel without that gilded collar that ensures his return after each and every sojourn. He risks trying to remove it once, on his third trip to Alfheimr. He doesn’t remember what happens, other than waking up a day later with burns on his hands and lesions oozing blood all around his neck.

He blames it on Enchantress trying to take control of him. Loki doesn’t fully believe him, but doesn’t dismiss it either. It’s a risk, since Enchantress is one of the few who still talk to Loki, but he also knows theirs is a complicated relationship, neither allies nor enemies.

A bit like him and Natasha initially, which disturbs him enough to cut that trail of thought immediately and bleach it from his mind.

He’s readying to leave on another job, a message to the dwarves, when the tower shakes. Not shudders or rumbles as the thunder occasionally causes. Actually shakes all the way to the foundation and some of the roof crumbles. “What the-“

When he rushes to the balcony, he sees Loki laid out on the ground and the Hulk jumping on him. Again. And again.

Part of him cries out for his god. Part of him just laughs hysterically.

What he does is put two fingers in his mouth and whistle sharply. “Up here big fella!” The Hulk looks up, then leaps off the ground and crashes into the wall, destroying half the room as he lands and throwing Clint onto the bed. “Oomph. Glad to see you too.”

“Puny god no longer owns hawk,” Hulk says, grabbing Clint’s ankle.

“Yeah, okay. Look,” but before he can continue, the Hulk staggers and Loki is there, eyes blazing red, skin deep blue, and hands smoking from whatever he just threw at the green beast. Clint is able to get his ankle free and dodge as Loki casts again, sending another spell at the Avenger.

This time, though, the Hulk brushes it off and punches Loki right in the face, who grunts as he hits the wall. The Hulk punches him again and again; each blow accompanied by the sound of bones breaking and struggled breaths.

Clint dodges around the room and jumps onto the Hulk’s back, looping his arm around the bulky neck. “Come on, Hulky. Let’s leave the puny god alone.” The Hulk staggers back, trying to reach for him, and it’s just enough so Clint can reach his foot back and touch the mirror with his heel so they fall through.

They appear in his travel default, Alfheimr. Clint immediately lets go to skitter back, giving the Hulk some breathing room. Unfortunately, the chain on his neck reacts to his journey to the wrong realm. His trip was to the underground city, not city of sun. It’s starting to punish him, boiling his blood until he goes back. He shouts, “Hulk, the chain!” He touches the necklace. “It binds me to Loki!”

Hulk bounds over in a leap and rips it off him in one smooth move. Clint doesn’t actually see the links break because the instant the chain is gone it feels like his entire skin is peeled from his body and his muscles contort, spasm. He thought he’d screamed under Loki before, but this, this has to be heard through all the realms of Asgard because it’s from his very soul, the broken part of him crawling out and wailing at the pain of losing the connection along with everything else.

He doesn’t remember passing out. When he comes to, he hasn’t moved, but the Hulk has been replaced by Bruce Banner, and he lets himself smile brokenly at the sight. “Nice armor,” he chokes out. His throat feels raw, bloody.

“Thanks,” he smiles too, though looks worried. “Agent Coulson got it for me so I could find Loki. Apparently, he killed a dragon.” The smile fades. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says quietly.

His body is one pulsing wound and his soul is torn in half, but he lets out a laugh. “Yeah. Perfectly fine. Just, give me a few years to move, cool?” He’s been gone at least six, by his count. What’s another two or three?

He must say that out loud because Bruce shakes his head. “Barton, it’s only been eight months.”

What. “What?”

Bruce moves closer to sit by his head. “Time moves differently here. It’s only been eight months since you were…well, since you left.”

Years. It’s felt like years, and it’s only been months? Well, god-made prison, he supposes that makes sense. “Eight months,” he coughs, trying to ignore the way his lungs ache. “What kept you?”

“We had to jump through some hoops. Thanks for the arrows, by the way. Thor thought your deception was worthy of song.”

Clint is so getting a copy of that from JARVIS when he gets back. He focuses on the other part of Bruce’s statement. “Hoops?”

“Odin created the prison to keep people out as well as Loki in. Agent Coulson volunteered to slay the dragon for the armor that would allow someone to bypass the wards.” Banner holds out his arm and shows off the gold chainmail. “Funny, vanished when the other guy came out, and reappeared when I came back.” He actually winks. “Magic,” he shakes his head.

Agent Coulson was here? “So where-“

“The dragon got in a final strike before it died, clawed up Coulson’s back. He had to return for medical attention. Since the other guy beat Loki once, the Avengers thought...” He shrugs. “I got lucky on my first try.” He looks over Clint’s body. “You up to moving yet?”

No. “Sure.” He lifts an arm, then drops it. “Think you can give a hand?” Bruce chuckles, stands up, and takes both of Clint’s arms to pull him up. Clint yelps at the way his raw nerves burn from the touch and curls away, swallowing the sob that wants to come out. “Sorry, sorry, give me… I just…” He’s wheezing through the pain. “I can do this.”

“Barton.” Bruce squats down, “Clint, stop.”

“No. I need-“

“The necklace is gone. If you need time-“

“No, no, no, no. I can…I need to go home.” He needs to get out of Asgard, to run as far as he can from Loki. The broken part of him is silent, but he knows its gathering itself, pulling itself together to continue the internal conflict. He can feel it. And if he’s still here… “Give me your hand again.”

“Clint-“

“Bruce, I can-“

“Stop,” he says with the authority of a doctor, and Clint feels himself tense, which just brings more pain. “I’m not going to kill you to bring you home.”

“I’m not some broken hostage,” he replies through clenched teeth.

Bruce stays quiet at that, evaluating. Then he steps back and starts struggling with the chainmail. Clint watches him, letting the pain settle into the background. He tries to push himself up again, but falls back, hissing as his muscles ignite on impact. He tries to figure it out, why Bruce can’t just bring him back however he got here.

The Avengers had to jump through hoops.

And this is the second trip.

Bruce thanked him for the arrows.

“You can’t just bring me back,” he says, choking at the realization.

Bruce drops the golden armor on the ground, nude from the waist up. Obviously Stark got those self-morphing pants finally working. “I can get back,” he answers slowly, “using the arrow. One arrow, one passenger. And we didn’t,” he pauses, “if it didn’t work…”

They didn’t want to risk losing the third arrow. “So how,” he stops. “The bridge. Frosty.”

“Bifrost.”

Clint stares at the sunlight filtering through the tree branches. “You should go back.”

“Clint-“

“That’s why you took it off, right? So I’d have something other than clothes from Loki.”

Bruce carefully sits down again. “I can still escort you. If we can find Thor’s temple-“

“Bruce.” Clint reaches out but stops just short of touching his friend. “Go home. Tell them,” he licks his lips, “tell them I’ll find my way. Now that he can’t force me back, now that I don’t have to go back…”

“He’s still in your head, though. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“He’s not.” Even as he says it, Clint can feel the devout part of himself laugh at his denial. “I can control it. I have controlled it.” Bruce stares at him again, and Clint swallows. “You know what it’s like, having a monster inside. I swear, Bruce, it doesn’t control me. It can’t. I’m not that broken.” The laughter in his mind is louder, almost exactly like Loki’s.

He can control it, though. He has for years—months—whatever the fuck time he’s been here. He absolutely can. He doesn’t need a babysitter.

“Agent Coulson will have my head, if I leave you alone.” Bruce sighs, but he pulls the arrow out from the waistband of his pants. He fingers it uncertainly. “I wish I could just hand it to you.”

Clint forces himself to touch Bruce’s forearm then, hold it tightly and ignore the way pained numbness crawls its way across his mind for doing so. “You have one more,” he gasps, “if I’m not home, you can, you can send someone else.” He lets go, lets his arm fall. “Escort me then.”

Bruce nods. “Hurry home, Clint. We’re all worried.”

Clint nods, then whispers out, “Thank you,” as heartfelt and powerfully as he can. The smile he gets is soft and warm and Clint focuses on it as he slowly passes out, feeling a sense of serenity settle through him for the first time in ages.

When he wakes again, both the pain and Bruce are gone.

No one is there to witness his crying.

5.
Clint spends weeks in the abandoned suburb, trading the armor Loki gave him for a left behind pair of brown leather leggings and simple green tunic. Green is seriously not his favorite color right now, but it’s between that and yellow, and his instincts as a sniper won’t let him wear anything so easy to spot. The chainmail is a bit of struggle to wear, but after a night of sleeping in it, it’s resized to fit him comfortably, the gold suitably tarnished to hide its shine.

Magic. He’s had it with fucking magic.

When he feels like he’s less likely to fall apart in an instant—either from pain or the part of his soul loyal to Loki—he sets off. He avoids Alfheimr’s main city, because he knows they’ll shun him for the Loki taint, just like they did the people he killed on his first hunt. Instead, he wanders the outskirts, tries to find a bridge, a magic tram, something to bring him from this part of Asgard to another. He wants to avoid using the cloak and reflections, in case Loki can sense it.

After a week of wandering, though, he’s pretty sure it’s us them, or approach the city gates and ask for directions. It doesn’t help that he has no clue where Bifrost is, most likely in the actual realm of Asgard, but would he be safe going there? Clint bites his lip as he thinks. Loki’s claimed him there. Any god or goddess could just throw him back into the prison.

When he can’t even get through the gates—“Well fuck you too, see if I save your asses the next time Thor asks!”—he pulls the cloak tight and runs to the nearest reflection, wishing to go the one place Loki would despise.

Which is how he ends up walking straight into a column of flame. “Christ!” He dives out, only to have to roll away as another pillar erupts from the stony ground. “Where the fuck-“

“Hawkeye!” A set of hands grab his arms and hauls him away from the fires and into a cave. “I had not heard you freed yourself.”

It’s Snorri, looking more than a little sooty and sweating, but his grin is infectious, and he looks honestly happy to see him. “Hey.” The heat bleeds through the cave walls. “Where the hell are we?”

“Not Hel,” he says. “Muspellsheimr. The one realm Loki and his minions cannot go.” He laughs. “To arrive here, you are truly free, friend!”

He feels something stir within him, the old command to hunt this man, to murder in Loki’s name. Clint pushes it down. “Working on it,” he says with a rough smile. He’s been on call in the desert before, but this…this heat is far more oppressive than anything in the Middle East. “Look, it’s been a bit of a journey-“

“Yes, yes.” Still holding onto Clint’s arm, Snorri leads him further into the cave. They ascend a few levels and while the heat light from the stones never vanishes, it does diminish. “I have left my brethren. You killed most whom Loki considered traitors. I thought to hide myself, spare the remaining families.”

Clint doesn’t apologize again. Whether because of his parched throat or the part of himself he hates, he’s not sure. Snorri continues talking anyways, explaining about the land of fire, the stories of Thor and prophecy of Ragnorak. “Look, buddy,” he interrupts as they arrive at a small encampment, “I appreciate the history and assistance, but I’m just trying to find Bifrost.”

Snorri beams as he takes a seat by a barrel of water, its surface steaming. He offers a cup, which Clint eagerly swallows down despite how it burns his tongue. “There is passage, from here to Bifrost.”

“Swell,” he says, feeling a little less lost. He sits by his new friend. “Think we can get there in a day or two?”

“Yes, of course.” The warrior’s eyes take on a sharp glint. “Once we have dealt with Loki and the others.”

Clint is reaching to get a second dip of water and nearly loses his grip on the wooden receptacle. “Oh,” he says carefully.

Snorri reaches out to touch his knee. Clint tries not to find it creepy. He’s not entirely successful.

“You and I are alike, Hawkeye,” he says mournfully. “We were promised great power at the hands of the Gods, were blessed with the sun of the Aesir and became of them.” He scowls then, his grip on Clint’s knee tightening. “We were not told how Loki would use us, violate us. And when we pleaded for help, the Gods saw fit to ignore it. I asked Thor himself for aid, and the favored son sent me back.”

He leans forward as Clint sips the simmering water. “I can see it, how he’s taken you. Did he draw blood as well? Did you beg for relief, for the torment to end?”

Clint swallows slowly, letting the heat of the water burn his hand. He flashes back to his first night, to the nights Loki has tortured him. He knows exactly what Snorri is talking about, knows it will haunt him just as that first time Loki took possession of him. Even so, there are warning bells going off in his mind, so he keeps his silence and nods.

Snorri nods back. “I was his Wolf, once. When I saw his claim on you,” he motions around his neck, the chain Clint no longer wears, “I knew I had an ally.” He leans back and opens a small ornate box, lifting a dagger out of it. Its handle is the standard brilliant gold, but the blade is obsidian black, seeming to draw in the dim light they have surrounding them. “This shall be our revenge.” He holds it out reverently.

Clint sets the cup down and examines it. Unlike other weapons he’s handled, this one is heavy, leaded, and the part of him loyal to Loki is screaming that it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. “What is it?”

“A blade forged by the dark elves, by those dwarves who despise Loki and the Gods of Asgard as much as us. The whispers say it carries the blood Tyr and the spittle of Fenrir.” Clint wrinkles his nose at the description. “Strike well with this, and an Aesir will not rise again.”

He turns the blade over in his palms. “And with this, we can kill Loki?” It’s the best way to free himself from the god’s control. He should be thrilled. Instead, for the first time since coming to Asgard, both parts of his soul are in agreement on Loki’s behalf.

“Not just Loki. Once he’s felled, we shall seek Thor, for aiding his brother. Hel, for denying us escape through death. Vidarr, for-“

“All the way up to Odin,” Clint interrupts.

Snorri nods eagerly. “Yes. We can avenge ourselves for the torment they’ve put us through. The Wolf and the Hawk, cleansing Asgard until it flows with the blood of the Gods!” He laughs, pleased.

Clint turns the blade over again. In a blink he’s launched himself forward and Snorri’s laugh is cut off, an accusing, started glare going dead in seconds. He pulls himself back as the warrior slumps to the floor, the handle of the knife protruding from his chest. Clint takes a deep breath, then sits and looks at the glowing walls.

He just killed his only ally in Asgard. “Figures,” he mutters, “he’d be as mad as Loki.” He tries not to wonder if that’s him in the future, the madness of a god creeping into his mind and heart. “What now, Barton,” he speaks to the wall. When the wall doesn’t answer, Clint sighs out an, “I’m fucked,” and starts scavenging Snorri’s belongings.

At least he knows there’s a way to Bifrost somewhere in this realm. He’ll rest up a bit then head out. He tries not to examine how easy it would’ve been to go along, to murder Loki in cold blood. He certainly deserves it for everything he’s done just in the last couple years. He absolutely does not review how uncomfortable it makes him feel, after vowing to kill the bastard, that now he’s not so certain he can go through with it.

He definitely ignores the thought that perhaps all those Loki sent him to kill was an effort to protect Asgard itself, and perhaps the trickster was trying to make amends the only way he knows how. It’s impossible. Loki’s a lying, raping, son of a bitch who curses his father daily and spits on his brother’s name.

Clint doesn’t even let Barney and their relationship flit across his mind, and how torment and abuse can sometimes be the only expression of love.

Absolutely not.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he awakens, Odin’s there with a large wooden spear in one hand and the obsidian dagger in the other. Clint blinks at him. “What’re you doing here?”

“Some weapons should not be left unattended.”

He scowls, and something inside him snaps. “Is that all I am to you? A weapon? I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than being called your son’s sex toy.” He snorts at that. “I guess that’s fine then, right? If all I am is a weapon, Loki’s not really using his magic to harm someone. I’m a thing. His thing. You don’t have to keep your oath. You can let him use me and anyone else as long as we’re not people, is that it? Is that how you let yourself sleep at night?!”

He jumps to his feet a second later, glaring at the god. “It doesn’t even have to be him, does it? You don’t care about me! Just a weapon,” he sneers, “to be used and thrown away when no longer convenient. Well let me tell you something, All-Father, if you think I’m going to be just another pawn or silent minion you can blow it out your ass! I’m doing being used! By Loki, by Alfar, by all of you! So unless you’re here to bring me home just…just fuck off!”

He’s heaving, struggling for every breath in the hot cavern. He realizes that his face is wet not just from sweat, but refuses to swipe at his eyes. He swallows, and his brain finally catches up to him and he takes an instinctive step back because, shit, he’d just shouted at Odin, king of Asgard.

Maybe, Clint thinks darkly, he’ll put me out of my misery.

He looks away from the god and ignores the deity’s stare. After a small eternity, he hears a shuffle of feet, and Clint just makes out the king’s back as he exits the cave. Clint takes another deep breath. A second. And then he grabs what supplies he found and follows. When he rounds the corner, he’s no longer in the cave but back in the dining hall, only this time, Odin is the only person present. Clint stops mid-step, but the cooler atmosphere feels fantastic and he lets out a quiet moan at the relief.

“Chosen Hawk of Loki,” Odin finally says, voice a quiet boom, “return to your master.”

It’s a command, not a request. Clint shakes his head anyways. “I won’t.”

The one eye lands on him, pierces through his soul. “Your business with my son is unfinished.”

“I don’t give a flying-“

“Hawk of Loki,” he repeats again, his voice echoing in the chamber, “you will return to your master. Now.” The final word is like a thunderclap, and Clint can feel his body shake at the power behind it.

He lets out a sigh and knows even if he tries to run he can’t escape Odin’s command. “Yes, sir,” he mutters, curses even.

As he gathers the cloak around him, Odin sets the obsidian blade on a table. “Hawk,” Clint looks over to him, “weapons of Asgard are as precious as our children; for they may have wills of their own. You may think I have little regard for both, but know this: I mourn.” He turns towards his throne, seeming to use the spear as a walking stick. “I mourn,” he repeats, “for I am bound by the laws of Asgard, even as king.” The spear vanishes from his hand, and he looks directly at Clint again as he sits in his throne. “The same is not always said of that which we forge.”

With that he shuts his eye and goes silent. Clint sucks in a breath, wanting to ask more, to confirm the epiphany Odin’s just given him. He can’t, though, and so he steps out of the hall goes towards a large shined shield. It’s easy to step through, and Clint mulls over the All-Father’s words as he makes his way back to the prison. It takes a little longer than usual, but he can feel the call, and finally emerges into the familiar tower.

The room is still destroyed, and Loki, Loki sits on the floor, surprise painting his features. Clint has a second to take in the loneliness, the fear, the hurt, before the mask of arrogance and fury slides into place, and Loki rushes at him, snarling.

Clint grabs Loki’s wrists before they can strike him. Apparently, the armor can do more than just break through prison wards. That’s fine by him, because he’s done. He’s done with the groveling and the begging and being something other than Clint Barton.

Everyone may see him as a weapon, but he’s his own. Not Loki’s, not Odin’s, not even SHIELD’s. His own. And in Asgard, according to Odin, that gives him a power one no one can take away.

“Release me,” Loki hisses.

“No chance.” And then he does the only thing he can think of, and leans forward to kiss the god.

It’s another eternity before Loki stops fighting him.

Even longer before Clint realizes the tears he feels don’t belong to him.

+ 1.
It’s the first time he feels like an equal, something more than Loki’s devout worshiper or abused pet. The bedposts are shattered, but the mattress and furs are still intact, and he lays Loki on it gently. He doesn’t escape from Loki’s grip, but apparently the god only wants to hold him, to know that he’s back. He apparently doesn’t care that Clint has some semblance of free will again.

That doesn’t mean Clint will let his guard down, though. He’s not letting Loki collar him again.

The prison still has no day or night, but somehow Clint knows it’s night when Loki finally pulls away from him. It takes only a minute for him to start falling back into the arrogant, cruel persona. Clint gets off the bed and leans against the wall, thinking. Finally, he nods to the room. “Show me the truth.”

He smirks at that. “I did. The truth of freedom-“

“No.” My stern answer makes his mask crack for an instant. “I mean the truth, here.”

The god shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not sure-“

“You have no need for an orchard, much less a rotting one. You aren’t an archer, and no walls could keep you in, not even when built by the All-Father which, I seriously doubt.” Clint lowers his voice. “This isn’t a prison built for you. It’s built for me.”

Loki stands then, sweeping himself off the bed. “You’re mine, Barton. I could keep you in a cage, in a box, in nothing but the silent abyss.” He throws a glare over his shoulder. “Why should I create simple comforts for you.”

Clint steps closer, but keeps himself just beyond of arms length. “I don’t know. What’re you afraid of showing me.” Loki bears his teeth at that, but Clint crosses his arms, refuses to give into the broken part of himself anymore and cower at the hint of wrath. “What’s your real prison, huh? Where did Odin really stick you?”

He braces himself, prepares for Loki to attack him. It’s a minute of reading the body language to realize that’s not what’s going to happen. Loki is…Loki is frozen, refusing to look at him, refusing to move. “Loki…”

“You make demands of your god,” he bites out, but no where near as angry as he’d been before. “You offer nothing in exchange.”

Clint swallows the if-you-own-me-I-have-nothing-to-offer remark and instead, slowly, goes to one knee. He doesn’t bow his head, he’s not taking his eyes off the god, but he does add a little reverence to his tone. “Your humble servant requests you show him your pain, so that he may better understand.” He chokes on the bile that uttering such a sentence causes.

Loki sighs, his shoulders slumping. “You can never understand.”

“I’m not so sure that’s the case.” Clint waits for Loki to get angry, to turn into his blue, monstrous form. Instead, he vanishes. A minute later the tower walls do as well, the archery range…the entire prison.

Except the tree from the far end, the one he could never get a clear look at, even up close.

Standing and brushing the dust from his pants, he shivers. It’s colder now, and approaching the tree, he can hear the bubbling of boiling water over the thunder. He has to look up to see the strange spring hovering in the sky, rivers reaching out and running down the trunk. There’s another sound above the water, something primal and dark that sends a shiver up his spine and makes his skin crawl.

The trunk is no longer indistinct. Now he can see Loki chained to it, manacles around his arms and legs, a collar choking him slowly. He’s not in his blue form, but his skin is tinged that color, and his body is soaked from the steam—frozen steam?—coming from the strange pond. He’s gaunt, his hair thin, and his breathing is wet, strained.

“Does it please you?” Clint absolutely does not jump as Loki, looking normal, appears beside him. “This is my punishment. To be bound before Hvergelmir and know the cold of my niece’s realm in solitude. One day, Nidhogg will eat enough of the root to emerge on this side, and then I shall be devoured, along with Yggdrasil.”

He turns to Clint, a scowl on his face. “Does it please you,” he repeats, “to see me defeated? Does this give you hope? Does it make it all worth it, to know I will spend an eternity in torment, my magic bound so that all I can do is,” he spits, “parlor tricks?”

Yes, part of him says vehemently. “Odin may forgive you,” he answers evenly, instead.

“My father cares nothing for me.” There’s no hate in his voice now, only broken acceptance. “Even my brother prefers me in chains.”

Clint knows that’s not true. “He misses you. He misses the friend he once had.”

“I don’t need him.” The anger is back. “I don’t need any of them.” He lashes out, grabs Clint’s wrist. “I have you, my Hawk.”

Clint flexes his arm, but doesn’t break the grip. “The claim must be sanctified three times.” He got that much from Snorri’s riddle.

Loki blinks, but smiles, wide and shark-like. “Yes. A year and a day in Midgard, a year and a day here.”

Clint can feel it, feel the seidr’s energy within him. “Today.”

Loki steps forward then, pressing his chest against Clint’s. “Will you lie with me, knowing the truth?”

Clint reaches up to rest a hand on Loki’s neck. He could fight back. He could try to choke the one avatar Loki’s made for himself. He could also make one more sacrifice before he leaves this wretched place.

He wavers for a moment. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t belong to Loki. He doesn’t owe the god anything. He doesn’t deserve any comfort Clint can offer.

He also doesn’t deserve an eternity thinking his family abandoned him. Clint knows that feeling. It eats away at the soul.

Loki has little enough left as it is.

So he lowers himself to the freezing stone, and sighs as the god lays atop him, undresses him slowly, carefully. Not the efficient strip when Clint was enchanted, and not the rushed, frenzied fucking when he arrived. Loki is taking his time, and Clint, Clint lets him.

In all his time here, Clint realizes, Loki has only ever fucked him the night he arrived. All other times, it was his own hand, or Loki’s, but never, ever full on sex between them. This is a trigger, this is part of what would bind him to the god.

And somehow, he knows this is what he needs to break the spell.

As Loki thrusts, slow and gentle, he isn’t demanding any words, isn’t ordering Clint to vow anything. When Clint opens his eyes, he can see just how broken Loki is, can see that the god knows Clint won’t be his when it’s over. Clint pulls himself up and tucks his head against Loki’s neck, offering soft kisses as Loki moves faster, harder.

“I wish,” Loki pants, “my Hawk, I wish…”

Clint shuts his eyes again, ignoring the way the shattered part of himself cries at the pain in the god’s voice.

Loki finishes first, silently. Clint follows with just a few strokes, biting Loki’s shoulder to keep himself quiet as well. He holds onto Loki tightly; trying to keep himself together, or trying to keep the god together, he’s not sure.

Finally, though, the cold gets to him, and he shivers, pulling away so he can put on his clothes. Loki lies on his side, watching, not bothering to dress his illusion. “You would have been my most precious Hawk,” he says once Clint’s pulls the chainmail over his head.

“I know.” He summons Hrotti to his hands, looks at the perfect weapon he’s ever been graced to wield.

“You still can be.”

Clint shakes his head, and knocks an arrow. It only takes him three shots to break the chains holding Loki’s hands and neck so that only the god’s strength holds him upright. He can free himself from there. His magic is bound, and maybe without the torture he’ll start to heal. He hopes, at least. It’s hard to hate someone as broken as yourself.

Not that he doesn’t still hate Loki for all he’s put him through, but Clint can admit that, like Natasha, maybe he deserves a chance to come in from the dark as well.

He turns to the illusion. “I’m not a weapon.” He drops the bow, and this time instead of vanishing, it gives a muffled clang as it hits the ground. “Neither are you.”

Loki snorts brokenly. “Perhaps.” He looks Clint over again. “I will come for you again, Hawkeye.”

“I still won’t be yours.”

“We’ll see.”

Clint lets out a long breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s lying in the middle of a road in some city. He only has a second to roll on his side and then he’s vomiting. It takes him five minutes and when he’s done it looks like a frozen oil-slick that glows a sickening green. Loki’s siedr.

He rolls onto his back again and lets out a huff, enjoying the sight of the stars and the true night sky.

He’s free.