Chapter Text
Task: Assassinate all on mountain then come round back to home base.
Three out of five targets gone. Sniper and Main Target are all that’s left. He’s up in a snow mound. The asset had found him moments ago. It wasn’t hard. The sniper was whistling to himself. Then he stood up and started walking towards the cabin still whistling. His stroll was casual. Too casual. The Asset sped up his pace he needed to finish this quickly.
The Sniper’s head flicked. He knew. The Asset was wearing snow coverage but it wasn't enough to stop the Sniper. How? Then the sniper started sprinting clumsily through the snow. The Asset caught up easily, the tundra familiar. The Sniper turned when he was an arms length away and said with a grimace.
“Mahnahmahnah.” Click.
What? That was the last thought The Asset had before everything went dark.
Clint woke up to a horrible ringing in his ears. He was supposed to be in the house when the bomb went off. His team were two miles away when he noticed they’d been cut off. How in the hell did that guy get here so fast? He could have sworn Taggart’s (may his racist ass rest in hell) last words were “Single Burnett Male heading towards our Vehicle Barton.” Clint was relatively certain that the man he blew himself up with was that man. How in the fuck did he make two miles in the middle of a snow storm in twenty minutes.
Clint sat up and coughed. It sent slicing pain across his chest. He begged his ribs not to be broken. Okay. Take stock. Ears ringing. Ribs cracked. He wiggled his fingers and toes. All limbs here. He briefly reached down to check himself and almost passed out in the snow from relief that little Clint was still there. All vitals check. He pushed himself onto his knees which was another level of pain he was not expecting. That concussive blast must have broken every blood vessel in his body, Jesus fuckingChrist.
Knees good. He told himself. It was getting dark and he had to make it to the targets cabin. He slowly pushed himself to standing with moments of bright white flashing across his eyes and more vomit than he deemed necessary. Fuck…. He stood fully upright taking a deep biting breath of cold air and looked around him in the dimming sunset at the area and nearly shat himself. The assassin dude was lying face up in the snow no more than six feet from him. His breaths were coming in small white puffs.
“Why the fuck are you not dead?!” Clint shouted. He thinks. His voice sounded oddly muffled. Was probably the ringing. Fuck. Clint turned around and looked at the cabin still a hundred yards away. He looked back at the assassin. That was a lot of blood… Clint was supposed to be a mercenary for Chrissake, he could leave a man trying to kill him to die in the cold. He just murdered a family man alone in his family's summer cabin. Granted it was the middle of December in Russia but still. He was a cold hard assassin. Clint sighed looking once more at the man’s faint breaths. He crouched down to heft him up by the shoulders which caused his stomach to roil in pain but he ignored it. At least if this guy died, Clint could eat him to survive the winter.
The Asset woke up fully alert. His back had been badly burned and he checked his neck, head, fingers and toes…His arm was out of commission. He looked at it, no more than a piece of distorted shrapnel attached viciously to his body. His right leg was broken and he was pretty sure his lung was healing from being punctured. Not the worst condition. He can’t process when the worst was but it was giving a headache even around what was most likely a major concussion. Instead he looked around his surrounding. He was naked against what felt like a fur rug next to a fire. There was a thin blanket covering him but other than that it was just his almost immovable body and the air. He pushed himself up onto an elbow and caught sight of the sniper looking just as battered as he felt snoring with all of The Asset’s clothes held defensively against his chest on a small cot set up in the corner of the room.
Task: Assassinate all on mountain. Three down two to go.
The Asset attempted to sit up and accomplish this but realized he was lying right next to another body. Main Target. Four down one to go. The Sniper snored. The Asset flexed his muscles. His left leg was shattered. He couldn’t walk…yet. Maybe the sniper would come to him and then he would attack. The Asset laid back and waited. The body began to smell.
Clint woke with a start that hurt his entire body. He reached clumsily for a bottle of aspirin that he’d found. He popped four out and chugged them down with water. He gasped. Time to work. He stood up and stretched gathering all the clothes the other man had under one arm and taking them with him. He took a wide berth around the two bodies. At least one of those he was going to have to get rid of. Today. Gross. Clint wandered to underneath the cabin to where the water heater was. He stuffed the assassin’s clothes into it and set it all the way up. Then he looked begrudgingly up the stairs. His right foot had a minor sprain and he felt like shit… He sighed once more and walked up. At least when he was done dumping Dr. Dumbass LooseLips some where in the snow he’d be able to take a great shower.
He stomped up and rubbed at his ears which were still ringing. He was starting to get worried. He was really close to that blast. Shit. His dad might have actually made him go permanently deaf. He began humming Mahnahmanah to himself to make it better. He could barely hear it like cotton was stuffed in his brain. He swallowed and kept singing his way up the stairs. At least his brain could hear it clearly, pink and purple muppets and all. He got dressed in Dr. Talks Too Much’s room and geared up for the weather. He briefly contemplated just burning the body in house then his nose wrinkled. Just get the body out of the house. Nature will do the rest.
Clint waddled out still feeling like hell. He looked at his mess. Why did he bring in the assassin? Because he couldn’t leave a man to die. That would be cruel. Killing them quickly was a blessing.
Clint’s next sigh shook his entire body with reluctance. He bent over Dr. Dumb As A Bag of Bricks to get a good heft for a fireman's carry when Mr. Assassin made a very good attempt to grab him with the not Terminator hand. Clint dodged then flicked the mans nose. “Kill me when you can walk.” Clint told him and then picked up Dr. Couldn’t Shut Up in a much faster fireman’s pull than he should have. He stumbled a little then grumbled and went through the narrow hallway that connected the front door to the kitchen and the living room with all the warmth. God he was hungry…Body. Get rid of the body. Clint opened the door and stubbornly walked out into the snow.
The Asset had heard The Sniper’s humming the same tune as yesterday but disjointed as if half the notes fit. He wondered if the blond man’s hearing was impaired and if he could use that to his advantage…Later when he wasn’t embarrassing himself. The Asset rubbed his nose. He hadn’t expected the flick to hurt. It reminded him of blue eyes and thin arms. He’d been out of stasis for approximately forty eight hours. Another forty eight and he’d have been out longer than he could ever possibly remember. At this time he’d be getting flashes of things. Past events never connecting. He wondered how long until he went crazy with questions. The Asset turned over to check his metal arm. He looked it over to see if his tracker was on. All he saw was a cracked blackened shard that appeared to be out of order. No tracker. He briefly wondered if they had one in his brain. He’d find out soon. So would The Sniper. He felt a flashing moment of emotion over the thought. Then he remembered the man was an idiot trying to heal him when anyone with half a brain cell would have left him to die.
Clint came back in after leaving the body as far as he possibly could away from the cabin. Which was still quite always from the nifty shed nearly a quarter mile away from the cabin. It appeared that yesterday was just the storm getting ready. It was near arctic levels of frenzy and Clint worried he’d loose sight of the cabin and die in the snow. He didn’t and now he was back in the blessed heat with company. He closed and locked the door. Then went to the sink and gulped down water. He wiped his mouth. He had to feed himself and angry angry assassin. Ugh… Why was living so hard? He opened a bag of stale Doritos for himself then grabbed one closed and a closed bottle of water for Mr. Assassin…Clint had to name him. He came over and stopped by the dude’s body. He was hot. Square jaw and cheek bones you could cut glass on. Step back George Clooney this one assassin is ready to destroy the panties of all the ladies. Clint shrugged and dropped the stuff about an arms reach away from the dude.
“Got a name?”
The man glared at him. Tight lipped and wary.
Clint nodded. Typical. “Imma call you Jack, after Jack Nicholson. You both got that angry psychotic motherfucker look.” Clint told him then walked away. He was really looking forward to that shower.
The Asset debated the pro’s and cons to eating the food. He’d been immunized against most poisons and while a small bomb going off couldn’t kill him, starving could. He ate. It tasted like garbage. Once he was done the Sniper wasn’t back and he was…bored. His focus had been gradually receding from The Task to other things like how the fire was dying and how he was getting cold and that he was pretty sure that his floating rib went all the way through his left lung and was slowly pulling itself out. He wanted clothes. Being naked on what he found out as soon as the Sniper took the Main Target away, bearskin rug was vaguely vulnerable. He couldn’t walk. His greatest weapon was a pile of heavy metal attached to him. There was not much left to do than look out the large plexiglass windows and watch as the snow piled high and listen to the winds grow loud. That’s when the thoughts came in. Trains, street ways not completely finished, hungry people, boys screaming about news articles, the smell of smog and sulfur and people hugging the air. Bright sky's filled with stars. Thin arms and big blue eyes. Over and over, the lines never connecting. He clenched his jaw and looked outside calculating hours and time. It was more pleasant that following lines that go nowhere.
Clint walked around the place after his shower and noticed a computer and a storage room filled with military meals from the fifties and every kind of canned food know to man. It was stocked to fill a family of four for a year. Thank fuck. Clint grabbed a six pack of Guinness and headed out to the living room maybe living zombie will be more talkative now that he’s eaten…Clint should probably make real food. He stopped and turned on his heal and grabbed two cans of Clam Chowder and saltines. Clint walked out singing Take On Me cause it wasn’t like he could hear himself miss that ear piercing note anyway.
He poured the cans into bowls and placed them in the microwave on the counter then opened a can of beer for himself then another for his deadly friend and walked back through the archway leading to the living room. He set the can an arms distance away from him.
“Didn’t poison it but like your entire body is fucked up so it might be easier to drink opened,” Clint said sitting on his cot further away from the Jack. Jack gave him a sidelong look but didn't move other than that. Clint began singing A-Ha again. He was bored but also concussed so he almost didn’t see the beer hurtling towards his head. Clint ducked before it could land but that didn’t stop it from getting his shirt and hair soaked.
“Aw Christ! Now you don’t get these sweet arms to give you a sponge bath anytime soon.”
“—re giv—ee---ead—ache—” Jack’s voice was coarse and Clint had to close his eyes to parse out what he just said. Headache. Ah. Well still. Fuck him.
“Just say so, don’t spill your beer over it.” Clint grumbled standing up. The microwave beeped saying their meals were done.
Clint pulled off his wet shirt and used it to dry off his hair to the best of his abilities. He grabbed two spoons and went back to the room. He was probably going to have to prop Jack up some how. That was dangerous given how the guy was so determined to murder him. He looked set down the bowls and looked up and tripped over the cot. Jack had sat up by himself using his prosthetic as a prop to hold himself up. Clint groaned. Every bone in his body ached. What the fuck. No really what the fuck, the man should be dead. But…. Clint gathered himself back up and looked at him. He was sweating profusely and was ten seconds from passing out. He also had a spoon of chowder in his mouth and was shoveling it down. He must be really hungry, Clint thought watching would dribble down his chin. Clint set up the cot and moved around looking for something he could lean on and found a chair that he could wedge between Jack and the fireplace.
“Move.” Clint ordered positioning the chair just so. Jack might have heard him or he just learned that with Clint preoccupied he could eat the other bowl of soup. Clint pushed the chair between them in that small moment and Jack startled when he sat back and he hit the chair. Clint dusted off his hands and went back to his cot to steal saltines before Jack could also eat those. Clint sat on his cot, eating saltines and sipping his beer. He also observed. Clint could have sworn Jack had an ugly scratch across his stubble on the right side of his face yesterday.
“What are you,” Clint mumbled.
Jack looked up. He hadn’t said anything except “shut up” to Clint but for just a moment a deep groove appeared between his brows and he looked like a lost puppy. Clint had a sudden moment of sympathy.
“You don’t know.” He said.
Jack scowled and apparently done demolishing the clam chowder and leaving a mess on the table laid back down. It appeared he was done with this interaction.
The Sniper had disappeared. Once he was done with his food he walked into the back rooms and began rustling around. The Asset did not appreciate how The Sniper (he really should come up with a name) read him so clearly. The man with three total interactions had come to three conclusions, The Asset was not totally human, he was designed to kill, and he was unsure of what made him like this. The Asset glared at the ceiling with it’s small skylight showing nothing but gray snow. He had to stop and close his eyes. Snow covered forests, snow in a park. His head throbbed. He relaxed his breathing. He hadn’t slept since entering the cabin and he knows that The Sniper (The Asset didn’t know why but Steve seemed to fit him. Must be the blue eyes and blonde hair) has slept at least twice since they entered. He began to meditate. Heal. Complete task. Maybe pretend Steve died. Something clenched in his chest. Steve would not do as a name for The Sniper. He let his body go as lax as it could being in so much pain. He would ask the Sniper his name. He would leave… He slept.
Clint went through all the rooms. He found a TV and a VHS player in the bedroom and put those on hold to move to the living room (with how fast Jack was healing there was no way in hell he was leaving Clint’s sight.) in the next bedroom he found board games and a keychain Simon Says that Clint broke. It only played Blue, Blue, Green, Blue over and over again. He also might not have been able to hear it. Clint set it aside and grabbed the board games and decks of cards. He brought those out and noticed Jack was sleeping. He set them next to the family photos and decided they’d still be good for later. There was only one bathroom but the tub was huge. Excellent. Washing Jack might be easier than previously expected. The last room was locked. Clint went into the storage room to grab a screw driver and removed the doorknob. He tossed it onto the filing cabinet next to the door. Wasn’t like they were going to need it anyway. It appeared to be a work room with a computer and monitor on a large desk and several piles of papers scattered everywhere. Clint picked a few up. Russian. Clint rolled his eyes. He tapped on the computer to open the screen. Password. Shit.
Clint could break bones, break locks, break laws and hearts but he was absolute shit at computers. Maybe Jack knows… well Jack’s sleeping Clint yawned. Maybe he should sleep too then go about setting up the entertainment systems in the living room so he and Jack could watch together. Jack may be a brick wall but he was better than nothing.