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Clint hasn't really gotten over it yet, despite the reports and medical clearances. Not to the point that he doesn't think about it or half-want it again. Part of it is the sheer trust and faith he'd handed over. Of course, it isn't like he'd wanted it then. He was forced and even the memories feel slimy when he reaches out for them. He--
"I can hear you thinking," 'Tasha says, looking up from her book with a perfect raised eyebrow. He sighs and scrubs at his face, mumbling something about a shower as he slumps out the the spartan standard issue bedroom. She kindly doesn't say anything about this being his third of the day or about the fact that they've managed to quietly sit in the same place without a mission to force it.
He turns the water as hot as it can go in an effort to relax, only wincing a little this time as it pounds over his bruises. He takes the same sort of measured breathes that he takes right before a shot, trying to clear out the clinging bits of fog still left in his mind. In through the nose, out through the mouth, repeat until he could see...
A pale hand cups his cheek and he shudders out a slow sigh, only pressing into it as much as he knows he can. He's always careful not to overstep his boundaries. This isn't like the handful of other times. There's no net to catch him here but he's never felt safe. A cruel curve of a ghastly smile that might as well be like moonlight over a calm sea to him, all bathed in a cold blue. He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly like he's taking a shot and--
He blinks at the blood swirling in the drain, the rain of familiar Russian expletives, the coppery smell of blood, and heaves out a heavy sigh. She's seen worse but not by much.
"He shouldn't be in the detail," 'Tasha says softly to Director Fury. Clint knows the discretion is in hopes that Stark won't hear and try to probe deeper. He could work this out on his own, has talked to 'Tasha and staffed counselors and Fury himself. He didn't need Stark with a world of sarcasm and cocky grins in this, not this time.
"You're a team," the Director replies just as softly as he ignores the banter flying between Stark, Rogers, and Banner. Clint really doesn't want to think about what those three might destroy if they ride of together after this. "A good team can work through its problems and this isn't nearly as fucked up as Stark and Rogers. Just keep an eye on him for now."
'Tasha gives a little nod, stepping away just as Thor walks Loki in. He's bound in some sort of half-enchanted, half-science cuffs and hobbles but it doesn't matter because Clint can't focus past his face. That cruel smirk he knows so well sprawls out and he's on his knees in an instant. He thanks 'Tasha for her presence of mind, kicking him over before the others have a chance to see.
"Brother," Thor rumbles out ominously, eyes narrowed as he looks from Loki's smirk to Clint on the floor, "you know that the terms of this depend on you releasing your hold on all of the humans once under your control. You will stop whatever spell you are working on Clint Barton this moment!" He squeezes Loki's arm hard and hustles him out the room.
Loki's reply manages to filter in before the door closes completely. "Oh, I have no hold on him save whatever hold he gives me." A dark laugh makes him shiver and he gives thanks to whatever power cuts it off quickly. Stark is hovering over him with Rogers, both of them concerned and babbling on about post-traumatic stress. Banner taps his chin and thinks.
The muzzle is a welcomed change but it doesn't stop those eyes. Or the dreams that come even with a world between them. Thank everything that 'Tasha understands and doesn't question, merely pushes him down and orders him to kneel.