Into the night we go

[bornrussian]

On the surface, it's just like every other mission Natasha has ever been on. Infiltrate the secret science base, find out what progress they're making, destroy their records after sending a copy back home, and torch the place behind her. On second glance, it's far more sinister than that. In the subterranean base in the Ukraine, scientists are trying (among other things) to change the human genome to create a race of veritable super-men. They're working to manufacture soldiers with superpowers.

Now, one might argue that's no different from the American Military's top secret attempts to do the same in the 1940s (or, hell, the Black Widow Program itself). But the methods are beyond dubious. They're using human test subjects and not one of them volunteered. And the survival rates are incredibly low. Though not as low as the success rates.

From what Natasha can glean from their records, it seems they started their experiments on the homeless; old alcoholics and runaway teens. But, lately, they've been grabbing more-- viable specimens. Like the specimens and not the methods are to blame for the lack of results.

The research station itself is a sprawling underground complex of bunkers dating back to the second world war. The walls are poured concrete, the clinical green paint peeling in places, and there's a hint of mildew, sweat, shit and decomposition underneath the sharp smell of disinfectant that's everywhere, even in the dingy private quarters of the scientists. There's a fading swastika embossed in the far wall of the canteen where the staff eats, and everyone pretends not to notice.

Natasha is posing as a brilliant, young lab assistant with a knack for languages and organization. The knowledge input for the mission has been vast, and for the first few days, her head throbs with the information crammed into it and each time she turns too quickly, it feels as her overfilled mind sloshes over the edges. She carries herself gingerly until the sensations finally fade and the information is integrated into her memory.

It's supposed to be a quick in and out, a week at the most. But, not only are the base computers not hooked up to the Internet, they also aren't used very much. Certainly not for keeping records. Every single file, folder and document is filed in paper-form in the heavily guarded Archive. Though Natasha gains access there within the week, it'll take her far longer to take get the requested information out without raising suspicion.

In the meantime, she does the job the scientists think they're paying her for. She organizes schedules, files reports (after typing them up on an ancient typewriter), and orders new medical supplies when needed. But she also draws blood from the subjects, injects them with whatever solution the scientists think will work this time (but generally only makes the subjects writhe in pain on the stretcher they're tied to), checks on I.Vs and vitals and stats, and yeah, sometimes she even brings the subjects food. Though calling it 'food' is quite a stretch. Most of them have to make do with I.Vs where nutrients are mixed with heavy duty sedatives to keep them calm.

She also observes the autopsies. There are fifteen in her first week.

Natasha's been there for two weeks when she catches sight of a familiar set of shoulders and her heart damn near stops in her chest. He's shuffling along a corridor between two orderlies, being led to one of the testing facilities. And despite the fact that she's needed down in Lab 15, she follows him, just to make sure that she isn't mistaken.

She isn't. It's doubtlessly him. Despite the slump of his shoulders and the way the drugs have softened the features of his face, and clouded his eyes, she'd know him anywhere. Even barefoot, in the filthy used-to-be-white scrubs of the facility he's still the most handsome man she's ever seen, with a smile she can't seem to get out of her head, except he isn't smiling now.

Hawkeye. Or, as he's known here, subject 319. Fuck.

The plight of the subjects hasn't passed her by, but they're not the mission, so she's compartmentalized, boxed them away and ignored them. But, she can't ignore this. Can't ignore him.

Within the day, she has his file tucked away in her pile of medical reports, and she's gotten herself assigned to him, even though he's not in the genome-trials where she works. He belongs to one of the other departments, where the death rates are slightly less steep (if only because they're generally transferred to the genome trials after a testing period of a couple of weeks), but the experiments are that much more painful.

They keep running into each other on missions, but this is the last place on Earth she expected to see him. Especially as a subject. What is his play here? Why is he here?

By that evening, the questions get to be too much for her, and she bribes the lab assistant who usually does his post-procedure check-ups to let her do it instead.

The cells where the subjects are kept are all clustered in one of the sub-levels, following a dank and dark corridor. The smell down here is worse. Even the antiseptic can't cloy the stench. It's not Natasha's first time down there, but it's the first time it gets to her, the first time her stomach knots with nausea the further down she walks.

The door is marked 319 with white chalk and you can still see where other numbers have been smudged out. She bangs the door, balancing the small tray of instruments on one hand and her hip. "Three, nineteen," she calls through the little hatch in the door of his cell, peering in through it to make out his form in the small cell. "Up against the wall, hands behind your head."

Comments

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

The first time Clint realizes this mission is far more dangerous than any of them thought, he's being strapped to a table in a medical ward and he realizes the restraints are not as easily slipped as they suspected and the needle sliding into the joint of his arm is injecting far more than a simple saline solution.

That is, in retrospect, the last clear thought he has. A desperate knowledge that this has become a one way trip, and all of it because someone hadn't done enough research, had intel that implied that the patients were volunteers, were treated reasonably well, were bribed for their cooperation. They knew about the kidnappings, of course, because that was why SHIELD had gotten involved, but the data they'd been getting from their trusted sources all indicated that sending an agent under cover as a patient would be the fastest way to infiltrate the corporation. Clint was chosen because he was new, he was talented, and there were more than a few higher ups that still didn't trust him. But it was assumed (even by him) that his strength and his skill at hand to hand would keep him safe, that if any of it got to be too much, he'd be able to get to something to send off a panic alarm and they'd send in the big guns and they'd all be liberated. None of them had counted on the drugs.

His life had become nothing but a series of needle pricks. Measurements. Medical Tests. Procedures when the drugs wore off so they could make sure the body was reacting in a perfectly human fashion, and then drugs again when the pain ended and the tests showed no results. And with the drugs came the side effects. The ones they were looking for, of course, the lack of coordination, slow thought processes, dizziness--everything to keep them in line and sedated and from rebelling, and then the ones that turned their world into a sort of living hell. The nausea that left bile and liquid for interns to clean, the nightmares that left the compound awash with screams that echoed on the concrete walls, and the
hyper sensitivity to pain that only seemed to grow with each dose he was given.

And there was no shortage of pain in his life, not now.

There were the tests where they injected various serums that seemed to light every nerve on fire and left him thrashing for hours and shivering for days. The stress tests where doctors monitored just how much the patients could handle before they collapsed--under pain, under heat, under cold, under pressure--running until their legs couldn't hold them up, and being dragged back to their feet to do it again after being injected with adrenaline, being strapped down and shocked until they passed out--all of it testing just how successful of candidates they might be for the genome project the doctor's whispered about when they thought no one was paying attention. Though, really, no one was, and if they were, there was nothing they could do about it. Despite the lack of coordination and reflexes, there were guards dispersed through out the building, mixed in with the orderlies and posted at the doors. Their intel had been wrong.

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

By the time he hears a knock on his door that sounds different from the normal orderly, he's barely sure of his name, much less the rest of who he is and why he's here. He's reduced to the number they've given him, the routine of the tests and needles and lights on and lights out, and when she gives the instructions he follows without thought of protest. There's no fight left in him. He stands and slips his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and listening for the sound of the latch. There's something about the voice that tugs at him though, the part of him under the cocktail of drugs, and when he hears the door open he's blinking open his eyes to see who's replaced his normal torturer.

A shock of red hair--it's something familiar, from a long time ago, and he is struck with the image of her in a burning building, smiling at him over the thrashing body of an important man--but as soon as it's there, it's gone and he's almost glad of it, because it doesn't make any sense. He's seen none of these people before in his life. He doesn't have a life outside of this, outside of this building and who he's become being here.

"Morning or night?" He asks, voice slow and deep with the rounded edges of the medicine. He can't remember, if this is evening vitals or morning, and often they don't answer him, but every now and again, they do--

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

It's not the reaction Natasha expected, this strange non-reaction. Ever since she saw him in the corridor, she's been toying with the thought of how he might react when she reveals herself to him. (Which, frankly, she shouldn't. If he has a line to the inside he could ruin her mission. Except-- Well, he never has this far.) Anger, perhaps, she thought. But more likely disbelief. And, perhaps if she's lucky, relief. Gratitude even. Or he'll toss her one of those smirks that make her heart skip a beat in her chest.

But he doesn't. And, at first, she thinks that he is just really, really committed to his cover. But, when she meets his gaze, it's like he doesn't even know her. For a moment, she thinks that she sees a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but then it's gone. It's like a punch to the gut, the idea that he's forgotten her. It shouldn't be, of course. People in her line of work don't make friends, and certainly not with enemy agents. But, he's been in her mind ever since their paths crossed at the Embassy ball, and now he looks at her like she is one of them.

"Night," she says, giving him a slow and searching look. They've really done a number on him, haven't they? "Well, evening. It's only nine thirty." She hooks her foot around the edge of the door and pushes it shut behind herself. The tray goes onto the threadbare blanket barely covering the dirty mattress shoved up against the corner, some of the items spilling from it, the pages of his file fanning out and scattering across the floor.

Natasha's heart pounds in her chest as she crosses the short distance between them. Has Hawkeye really been reduced to this? There's a clear routine to the twice-daily check-ups, and she's ignoring them entirely. She cups his chin with her hand and shifts his head this way and then that, carefully looking at his eyes. The touch isn't precisely gentle, but it isn't harsh either, nor is it clinical. "How bad off are you?" she asks frankly.

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

"Nine-thirty," he repeats, trying to process the information like it's vital to his life, but--really, it's just because it seems like nothing sticks in his brain anymore and he wants to find some frame of reference, something to help him level out. And that seems like something important too, that idea, but he can't for the life of him remember why and it compiles onto the dizziness and the confusion and he groans, letting his head thump back against the wall.

The clatter of her instruments draws his attention though, not the sharp-eyed focus she might have come to expect, but a sort of bleary half-focused thing as he tries to puzzle out what's going on. There are files there, he can see his number stamped high on top of each of them, but there's no real reason for his technician to have anything beyond the vitals reports they always carry with their check boxes to note how all of the subjects are responding to another day of treatment.

Lacking his routine, the former agent has no frame of reference and his confusion only increases, wincing as her hand finds his chin, letting out a hiss at the twist of his head. It shouldn't hurt, the grip isn't tight, but it does, sharp pains that skitter down his spine and he wants them to stop, sometimes so desperately it actually aches somewhere deep in his chest and he knows he would do almost anything they asked if they had a way to make it stop hurting.

"What--" he replies, meeting her eyes with his own, though his are unfocused and nearly vacant. This is not the man you know, Natasha. He might be in there, somewhere, but he's buried under a chemical cocktail of secobarbital and five other things he didn't catch when the nurse rattled it off--sedatives, all of them, meant to dull the mind, to confine, contain and keep them all the perfect patients. "I don't understand the question." It's a standard answer. A safe answer. An answer that doesn't lead to any sort of punishment. It's twins are 'yes' and 'no' and nothing else beyond that. He'd gotten close, earlier, with 'what'. And he'd crossed the line with the question about the time. She's not following the rules, though, and it's thrown him off, so he clings to the pattern, trying for normalcy or what serves for it in his life now.

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

Natasha keeps searching Hawkeye's face for any sign of recognition. But, she's not getting any. Slowly, it's dawning on her that she's not catching so much of a glimmer of intelligent thought either. So she broadens her search, looks for a single trace of him in those drug-clouded eyes of his. When she doesn't find one, her heart stops cold in her chest. He's gone. They've stripped away everything that makes him him with their drugs and their 'experiments' (though 'torture' is a far better word for it). She's seen it happen before. But she never thought it could happen to Hawkeye. He used to be brimming over the edge with personality, and now that's just wiped clean.

"Fuck, you're too out of it," she says, dropping her hand from his chin in disgust. She feels like punching the wall in frustration. The only reason she doesn't is that she doesn't want to upset him. She's seen all too many times how anger or impatience from the scientists can make a subject cower in fear. Somehow, though she's seen the other subjects and interacted with them, she never expected Hawkeye to be like them. She thought he was stronger than that. And she's pissed at him because he isn't.

She steps away, drags her hands through her hair and tries to regroup. In all the scenarios she ran, she simply didn't count on this. First thing first though, she calms herself, and gives him a pleasant -- if somewhat forced -- smile. She'll have to treat him like on of the other subjects. At least until she can find a way to clear the drugs from his system.

"What's your name?" she asks softly. She's stepping close again, touching two fingers against his facial artery, just by the jut of his jaw, and checking her wristwatch, ostensibly to measure his pulse. In reality, she's barely paying attention to his heartbeat. It's just that this is the first step in the routine, and he needs settling down.

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

If it changes it, if it makes it something better, he thought he was stronger than this too. He would have said, before this, that he'd keep a grip on himself no matter what people did to him. That he'd be able, somehow, perhaps through simple force of will, to keep his mind, despite the torture and pain and drugs and whatever other horrors whoever contained him had in store. He was over-confident, perhaps, cocky, arrogant, but he had reason to be, and he knew who he was, knew his history and his place and his mind, and he knew he'd be stronger than everything they could throw at them.

Except, of course, when he wasn't.

Because he hadn't been stronger than this.

His confusion only deepens as she releases him, unsure what, exactly, he's done wrong, but not sure how to express the sort of tight uncertainty this leaves in his chest. Something tells him, some echo across the space and time of his lost memory, that he wants to impress this woman. Wants to do things so she'll look at him with surprised sort of stare, head tilted with a tiny, genuine smile on her face--

But he doesn't know how. Doesn't know what she wants from him or how to give it to her. But he knows, just like he knows the number they've assigned him, that the tight, pleasant smile she's giving him now is wrong. But he can't place why. Can't--it's making his head pound, just trying to figure it out, and he doesn't think he can take the extra level of pain, doesn't think he can handle the ache, and so when she reverts to the pattern, he does as well, clinging to the familiar words. He still doesn't want to disappoint her, this woman he doesn't know.

"Clint Barton." It's true, and if he were Hawkeye right now, he'd worry about giving her his identity, but he isn't, and she asked, so he doesn't. This is part of the routine. The things she could learn about him, if she cared to know. His pulse is jackrabbit fast though, against her fingers, because of the confusion, because of the pull of the drugs, because he thinks he knows her, but that makes no sense, and he feels, maybe like this is some sort of hallucination given to him by the sedatives. Maybe another nightmare, maybe another stress test to see how long their minds can handle the strain--

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

It doesn't change anything. Because regardless of how unexpected this is for him, it still happened. He's lost in the maze of his own mind, the path out obscured by the mist of drugs and he can't make his way out on his own. It's not that she's disappointed in the weakness though. Not really. (Hell, she's been as lost as he is now, though generally she has had her handler's voice tugging at her like a lifeline, connecting her to reality.) It's rather the fact that seeing him like this scares the hell out of her, and she'd rather be angry than scared any day of the week.

The easy answer that he really shouldn't be giving her, earns him a sharp look before Natasha remembers that she's supposed to be soft and reassuring right now. Despite the fact that he -- even drugged to the gills -- shouldn't be giving up something as vital as his identity to anyone. If that truly is his name though, (because she doesn't know, does she?) it's a good sign that he's in there somewhere.

"Hello, Clint," she says and rubs her thumb soothingly over the corner of his jaw, fingers still pressed against his pulse, which is just too damn quick. Technically, this is the point where she ought to test his ability to follow her finger with his eyes before using the small flashlight tucked in the breastpocket of her white lab coat to test his pupil reactions, and she really shouldn't be straying from the routine--

"I'm Natalie." It's her cover name, so it's safe enough to give, even though the employees here would never introduce themselves to a subject. It'd be a bit like exchanging names with a dog after all.

"Your heart is beating a bit too hard, Clint. So, I'd like you to slow it down for me. Think you can do that? If I walk you through it? All you have to do is do exactly what I say. You can do that, right?" Her voice is soft and reassuring, like she's learned to keep it with the subjects, but there's a warmth to it that's only for him.

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

He relaxes, just a little, under the touch of her hand, slow and steady, and he takes a shuddering breath, eyes watching her warily as she speaks. They are off record again, off the routine, but with her hand there he's holding steady, keeping strong, and he takes another breath, trying to settle. Natalie--he has never met a Natalie before, so his belief that he knows her has to be wrong, then. That settles him too.

"Yes Ma'am," he replies, quiet and concentrating, trying to do what she wants from him despite the haunting slowness of the drugs that claw at his every reaction.

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

Ma'am. Natasha has to fight a wince. The word is strange coming from his lips, the shape of it doesn't seem to match his mouth really.

"Good, Clint," she praises him warmly with an encouraging smile that's as fake as the name she just gave him. "Now, close your eyes, and just focus on your breathing. In and out, slow and careful." Her thumb runs down the line of his jaw, fingers still pressed gently against his pulse point. "If you listen carefully, you'll be able to hear my breaths. Match yours to mine, slow and easy."

She breathes slowly, exaggerating each breath so that he can follow it, and spends the time looking him over. Even in his sorry state, he still cuts a fine figure of a man leaned against the wall like this, fingers laced at the back of his head. The ill-fitting shirt of the scrubs he's wearing has slid up to reveal a strip of bare skin and gorgeously muscled abs. If he'd been more himself right now, Natasha might even have been able to appreciate the view.

Once his breaths are timed with hers, she reaches out with her free hand and gently takes one of his, manoeuvring it to her chest where she presses it over her heart. "Keep breathing, slow and easy, but feel the rhythm of my heart. That's what we're aiming for." He's a sniper, this should come easy to him.

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

His eyes slip closed at the command and that helps, pushes back the roiling dance of his stomach, the pounding just behind his temples, the dizziness that seems a part of every movement he makes these days. He's able, without the distraction of his sight, to slow his breathing, matching it to hers. And that, more than anything, would convince him--if he were aware enough to know--that he wasn't himself, because there is little Clint values in the world as much as his sight. It is his lifeline.

But their breaths are matched, chests rising and falling in the same pattern, same rhythm and then his hand is on her chest, and he can feel her heart beat and something in him remembers the importance of a heartbeat. He couldn't say why, or what it was for, but he remembers there's something to this, about settling your heartbeat, about finding the spaces between each solid thump.

He feels her heart and he settles, sinks down into the stance he's learned as familiar,free hand moving off his head, relaxing just that much more, slipping down to the back of his neck, legs spreading just slightly as his feet automatically line up with his shoulders. She's right, his body remembers this in some way, even if his addled mind does not.

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

A single knot of tension in the veritable snakes nest in Natasha's belly eases when Hawkeye (or, Clint, rather) falls back into a more relaxed stance, his heartbeat slowing to match hers pretty perfectly, along with their steady, even breaths. It earns him one of those rare, and tiny, real smiles of hers, though this one is tinged with more relief than the ones he usually gets.

"Very good. Now, you can open your eyes again." When his eyes blink open, slow and sluggish, she gives his hand a light squeeze before moving it from her chest and lowering it to his side. "You can do the same with the other arm." Her hand falls away from his face and she holds up a finger for him to follow with his gaze. "Let's get you checked out." Not so much for the checklist she has to fill in, as for her own personal need to know.

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

There's a sort of warmth that fills him at the sight of that smile, and he's not sure what it is or why. He's made her happy in some way, and that's something he thinks he wants to do, but he's never felt any sort of connection to the other medical staff before and still can't place why she's different. His heart loses the soothed rhythm she put it in, and he reaches out his other hand, slowly, perhaps in fear of the shocks that sometime follow a patient's quick actions, settling it back over her heart and re-balancing the beats.

His eyes track her finger, and though the path is slow, there's a steadiness to it. This he knows how to do, he knows the answers they're looking for.

"Yes ma'am," he agrees, as per protocol, and settles himself still. There will be needles, soon and vials of blood she has to collect. His blood pressure taken and monitored and more medicine, always more medicine, entered into his body. And he's learned, through trial and error and mistakes made time and time again, that there's no point in fighting any of it, because all it ends in is a swarm of guards and enough sedative to knock him on his ass for days, when he can do nothing but try not to choke on his own spit.

Or at least, he'd learned that at one point, knew it was true, but now? With the amount of drugs he'd been ingesting, he couldn't remotely entertain the idea of fighting. Besides, she'd been kind. She obviously wasn't here to hurt him.

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

Natasha stiffens when Clint reaches for her, watching the slow motion of his hand suspiciously. It's a good thing that his hand doesn't move faster, or she might've automatically considered it a threat and wrecked all the good work she's done so far. Somehow, it's still unexpected when his hand presses gently over her heart and she stills under the touch, her breath catching painfully in her chest. For a moment, she just looks at him, eyes wide with surprise.

It takes her a second longer than it should to pull herself back together and catch her breath again. And once she does, her smile has widened and grown cheerful and false once more.

In the few weeks she's been there, she's grown accustomed to the steady routine of the twice daily check-ups, and it settles her just as much as it settles him. Even though she worries about how slow his eyes are in following her finger. She takes the penlight from her chest pocket and shines it in his eyes, watching the sluggish reactions of his pupils. She tucks the penlight back in her pocket and then she covers his hand with hers, and gives it a light squeeze. "I have to fetch some things from the tray," she tells him, and then she steps out of his touch.

She kneels down and gathers the scattered papers from the floor, tucking them back into his file. "Come sit down," she orders, giving the mattress a quick pat. The rest of the examination will go quicker if she doesn't have to move back and forth all the time.

[stillnotlegolas.livejournal.com]

He feels like something's missing when she's moved away from his touch, but he doesn't follow, keeps his position even though he wants to reach out for her again. He doesn't know what his connection with her is, but he can feel it, thrumming just under his skin, and he wants to cling to it like it's a lifeline, because it's something that makes sense in the chaos of his mind.

The order is followed like all the orders here are followed--as quickly as he can manage and without any complaint. The mattress dips just slightly under him as he settles down, settling his hands over his knees and watching her with somewhat renewed curiosity as she moves.

She's going out of order, but the steps are the same, and the part of him that still has any sort of thought pattern to it wants to know why, while the rest of him simply wants to sleep. Sleep is always sort of a luxury, because part of the trails are seeing how the medication interacts with sleep deprivation, but it seems like, at least for a little bit, they're abandoning that and the patients are being given six and seven hours a night.

"You're new," he says, out of the blue, and then looks almost surprised when he hears the words come out of his own mouth. As a rule, conversation is frowned upon. But maybe she will answer and he can figure out what about her makes his skin itch like he's forgotten something as important as his birthday or age--

[usedtoberussian.livejournal.com]

Natasha sets the folder down on the floor by the end of the mattress. She shouldn't, strictly speaking, be carrying it around with her, but she hasn't had time to read it through yet and the Archive closes at seven. So it was either bring it with her or lose the opportunity until tomorrow.

She's vaguely aware of how Clint moves over to her side with more speed than she thought he could manage, and she looks up at him as he sits down on the mattress, flashing him a smile in reward. The subjects react well to rewards, and to kindness. Of course, most subjects she's been brought into contact with haven't made it through a week. Once they're injected with the serum... They don't last long.

Kneeling on the floor, she begins sorting out the equipment on her tray, lining up the vials for blood tests and tearing open the sterile blood-kit. His words surprise her as much as they surprise him, and she darts a look up at him. "I am," she confirms. "Been here two weeks now."

Reluctantly, she pulls on the cheap, blue plastic gloves. They're too tight and despite the talcum powder on the inside, her skin turns clammy as soon as she's snapped them into place. "Give me your left arm, I'm going to draw a little bit of blood." She looks up at him, sort of searchingly, and then she adds, "You can put your other hand back over my heart if you want." Because it seems to settle him, and despite her previous training, she's not quite mastered the art of drawing blood yet.