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Hawkeye never missed a shot.

Steve Rogers may have had his doubts about the man, but those doubts had all been erased by his skill as an archer and his earnestness to atone for the Battle of New York. More than that, the man was consistent. Natasha kept secrets, Tony was consistent only in the fact that he was always unpredictable, Bruce could transform into the Hulk any second, and Thor was…well, Thor was Thor. But Hawkeye? Steve always knew the man would be keeping an eye on his teammates' backs from whatever building offered the best view. During their current fight against Justin Hammer's brand of Iron Man-like droids called "Adaptoids", that building was a chrome corporate tower sitting across from an undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. storage facility.

Steve didn't even need to direct him into position, Hawkeye just knew where to stand. While Steve fought drones on the ground level, Hawkeye kept an eye on the scene, picking off the bastards whenever they came too close to another Avenger. More than once, Steve had raised his shield and turned around to find a silver drone slumped to the ground beside him with a black arrow through its head. After the third time it happened, Steve glanced at Hawkeye to find him perched on the edge of the building and firing off arrows in every direction. So damn reliable. Hawkeye had his idiosyncrasies; he was sarcastic, stubborn, and on his worst days, almost as reckless as Stark. But at the end of the line, Steve knew Hawkeye would watch their backs. He never missed a shot. So Captain Rogers jumped back into action, let Hawkeye work, and forgot about him in favor of keeping Stark under control.

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The Hawk never missed an opportunity to protect Earth's citizens.

Thor Odinson, God of Thunder and rightful King of Asgard, could appreciate the archer's commitment to his people. The archer had no powers to speak of yet he risked his life for his people like a true warrior. While Thor was engaged in battle, the Hawk had taken it upon himself to free a hall of people trapped by a dozen metal men in the corridor between two towers. The Hawk swung from a cable arrow to aid them, felling one of the creatures by landing on its back and using it to soften the blow of his landing. Thor turned away to throw Mjolnir, a line of metal men crushed under its mighty strength, and when he looked back, the Hawk was herding mortals to safety amid a field of broken metal.

Loki was right when he said the Hawk had heart. Watching the Hawk shepherd citizens to safety, Thor mused that while the Hawk lacked the power of himself and the other Avengers, his ability to protect citizens was unrivaled. His role as a protector suited him, Thor decided. Swinging Mjolnir, he flew off into the battle, thinking that unlike the Hawk, it was in battle where he belonged. The Hawk never missed a chance to protect others. Thor never spared a thought for others when there was a fight to be waged and won.

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Legolas never missed a chance to snark with Stark.

Birdbrain may have spent most of the Battle of New York chugging the electric blue Kool-Aid of Loki's space scepter, but Tony recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one. Besides a mutual love for liquor and a penchant for pulling pranks on Capsicle and Point Break, the two could fill the coms with a constant chatter. Sarcasm, jokes, dry comments said with a straight face that could almost coax the corner of Widow's mouth to twitch upward from its scowl. There was no limit to the trouble the two of them could cause when the mood struck them. Cap had once threatened to shut off their coms after they spent an entire fight against A.I.M. referencing movies to see how many they could rattle off before Thor or Cap recognized one.

It was a partnership built on banter…words…and if those words weren't always true, then so be it. Both were used to lying and being lied to by others. Furthermore, if there was no need for words, then there was no need for contact.

As such, when Tony gave Legolas a lift back to his nest, dropping Birdbrain with more force than expected, they exchanged quips and went their own way. Tony ignored the archer's slight limp JARVIS had documented on the screen and Feathers hid it without mention. Legolas never missed a chance to make Stark smirk. But with JARVIS directing Iron Man's attention to an impressive mass of droids Hammer had released, some of which were sneaking toward the other side of town, there was no time for words.

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Agent Barton never missed a step.

Bruce Banner marveled at the way Agent Barton was able to keep a handle on his emotions. He had been brainwashed by the (for now) unexplainable properties of the Tesseract and hadn't paused before entering into the fight against Loki. Months later, Agent Barton was as unstoppable as ever. He had entered their current fight against Hammer after coming off a long and grueling mission with the new S.H.I.E.L.D. that ended with Director Fury publicly reprimanding him before sending him to fight with the Avengers. It stressed Bruce out just thinking about it, but Agent Barton had shook it off, gave the team a shit-eating grin (Tony's words, not Bruce's), and said something snarky about deserving fancy coffee later.

Agent Barton was unflappable, and Bruce knew even the Hulk couldn't faze him. When the mission went from simple to Code Green in the five minutes it took Hammer to release an inconveniently high number of robots, Banner's appearance as the Hulk became inevitable. Through the hazy memories of the Hulk, Bruce recalled that Agent Barton did not hesitate like Captain Rogers or watch him warily like Agent Romanoff. On the contrary, Arrows offered Hulk a smile as he passed and pointed him in the right direction. Agent Barton never missed a step. Bruce was jealous of his control, the ease in which he boxed his emotions; and if he were honest, it unnerved him to the point where Bruce actively kept his distance.

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Barton never missed details.

Natasha knew Barton better than anyone, and she knew he wasn't as ignorant as he would have others believe. Barton was perceptive, and it was what made him the world's greatest marksman. He picked up on details none of them saw: patterns informing them where the enemy would attack, weaknesses the villain had forgot to fix, and he clued them in to those subtle shifts that gave the enemy away. Natasha wasn't there, but she knew for a fact that Barton had figured out the Tesseract quicker than any of the world-class astrophysicists S.H.I.E.L.D. had employed on the project.

Barton's eye for details, his ability to read people when nobody else could, is what brought her to S.H.I.E.L.D. instead of putting her in a casket six feet under. Natasha trusted her friend with her life….and sometimes his knowledge of her unsettled her. Times when she knew he suspected more about her than she wanted to divulge reignited an urge in her to leave. She couldn't hide from him like she could hide from the other Avengers. And after dumping all of her personal history onto the internet after HYDRA infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha knew she needed to create space between them until the Black Widow could cover up those details he would easily see. Because Cli-….Barton never missed a detail. Hawkeye could handle himself, so when he pointed out to her that Justin Hammer was attempting to escape, she grabbed Captain Rogers, not Barton, to follow him to his lair and interrogate him for a way to shut down his Adaptoids.

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The Avengers never missed Clint.

Clint knew the Avengers never missed him, just like he knew he was the weakest of them all. He could try all he wanted to keep up with his primitive weapons, but the others were gods, geniuses, and had powers he could never hope to match. He didn't know why they kept him around, pity or guilt maybe, but he knew they didn't need him.

Everything went downhill after Clint returned from a touchy solo mission on the outskirts of a small country called Sokovia. He was supposed to survey a minor HYDRA cell that was kidnapping people off the streets to use in some kind of human experimentation, more than a dozen people having disappeared into the building only to find their mutilated corpses months later and a few miles away. Clint knew his role was to survey the cell, not infiltrate it, but some things crossed the line. If the building suddenly exploded, destroying all of their research, Clint couldn't be held responsible. There was nothing to trace him to the explosion since any arrows he fired had disintegrated in the flames.

Director Fury had been furious, to put it honestly. He had threatened Clint with suspension, desk duty, and had even gone so far as to threaten revoking his archery range privileges for disobeying a direct order. After the first echoing yell, Clint knew his teammates and probably half the Helicarrier had heard him. Clint would have been angry, would have reminded Fury of the time he disobeyed orders and brought back S.H.I.E.L.D.'s greatest asset in the form of a fiery Russian assassin, but the cell was gone and they wouldn't be experimenting on anyone else. There wasn't anything Fury could do or say to make blowing up the place not worth it. Even the threat of termination, besides sending a spasm of fear that tightened his chest at the thought of being permanently released, couldn't fully dampen his mood.

After Director Fury finished thoroughly reaming him, Clint was sent to join the rest of the Avengers to prevent Justin Hammer from using robots to rob a S.H.I.E.L.D. armory. Exhausted, starving, and wishing he could just sleep for a couple hours, Clint trudged along behind the others toward the Quinjet in awkward silence. Except…it wasn't exactly silent. Natasha flew the Quinjet while discussing battle tactics with the wonder-twins: Steve in the co-pilot's seat and Thor blocking the gap between them. Tony and Bruce, science bros for life, were seated off to the side and animatedly discussing artificial intelligence. Clint didn't feel much for conversation that day, but it was times like these over the last couple of months that he noticed how the Avengers, whether in battle or lazing around the tower, avoided him.

For the most part, Cap and Thor chose to ignore him. When they reached the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility Hammer was trying to hijack, Steve surveyed the scene and was quick to assign them each a position.

"Thor, I want you up in the air. These suckers can fly so keep them contained. Stark, help Thor and see if you can figure out how they work. Send whatever information JARVIS can get on them to Bruce so you two can work to shut them down. Bruce, if we need the Hulk we'll let you know," Steve said. "Natasha and I will cover the ground, keep those robots from getting through the doors. Everybody understand their role?"

"Where do you want me, Cap?" Clint had asked, but his words were lost under Thor's enthusiastic "Aye!" and the others' less enthusiastic agreement. Before he could ask again, the Avengers had scattered.

It wasn't the first time Cap had forgot to assign Clint a role. The first time it had happened, Clint had made a point to ask Steve where he wanted him. A question to which the Captain had tersely replied, "the roof." He was already engaged with an enemy, Clint didn't blame him for being curt. Actually, Clint tried not to read into it too much when it kept happening because of course it was expected that Hawkeye, the long distance sniper, find a spot where he could keep an eye on the entire battle and pick off enemies. Clint may ask Steve occasionally where he wants him to post up, but he feels stupid every time. Steve needs to focus on the Avengers with bigger hits. Hawkeye's job is to make sure none of them get hurt, and it's part of the reason he works hard to make sure he never misses.

That's why Clint made his way to the roof opposite the S.H.I.E.L.D. armory and immediately started picking off robots. They're sneaky. Hammer clearly programmed them to learn as they fight, and it didn't take him long to realize how some Adaptoids posed as distractions while others snuck up on the preoccupied Avengers. Clint was shooting as fast as he can, his focus shifting from one Avenger to the next in an attempt to keep them all covered. His attention so fixed on his teammates that twice he was almost knocked off the roof when the Adaptoids come after him.

Eventually the robots slowed down their attack, seemingly ordered by Hammer to regroup, and giving Clint his first chance to spot them. They weren't S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Clint could tell by their business casual attire that they were civilians who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. They huddled in one of the alleyways between buildings, trying to sneak away from the battle before the next wave started, but really putting themselves in more danger.

"Should've waited it out," Clint thought, tapping the coms to send a message to either Nat or Steve and have them remove the people to a safe area. Unfortunately, the robots were moving back into battle, a dozen Adaptoids catching sight of the civilians and cornering them. There was no time for Nat and Steve to sprint the four blocks to the people's aide. The robots' metal hands were already creeping toward their hostages. There was barely time for Clint to act, but he nocked a cable arrow and zip-lined down to the civilians, able to draw the robots attention for those few necessary seconds.

The ride was rough. Well…actually, the ride wasn't that bad. The LANDING was rough. Clint gained a lot of speed sliding down the cable, and he could tell the moment a robot moved into his path that this would be bad. His legs jolted upon impact with the metal back of one Adaptoid, his left leg in particular sending pain through his hip as he awkwardly fell to the ground on top of the robot.

He jumped as best as he could to his feet, placing the civilians at his back and taking in the dozen targets turning their digital eyes on him. Times like these he wished he were more like the others. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Thor watching him before turning to demolishing a line of Adaptoids with a single swing of Mjolnir. Powers would be awesome, Clint decided as an Adaptoid lurched at him and managed a hit to his cheek before he could jam an arrow into its head. In the meantime, he'd have to get creative.

Reaching into his quiver, he pulled out a short-range EMP arrow, something he designed himself and worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. to manufacture. It made sense to him that it would short out the robots, at least those nearest him, since they seemed to be running on the same frequency. He sent it through the head of a central Adaptoid, nocking four regular arrows just in case, and watched in fascination as they sparked uniformly, clanking to the ground as they shut-down.

"Good to know," Clint thought. He quickly replaced the arrows in his quiver and ushered the scared civilians out of danger. "Hey Stark, these robots are susceptible to Electromagnetic Pulses," Clint said into the com. He toed one of the Adaptoids with his boot, watching the fingers twitch. "At least for a little while. Anything you and Banner can do with that information to disable these things?"

"An EMP large enough to disable all of them would not only short-circuit my suit, it would cause half the city to go lights out," Stark replied. "We could try focusing the blast on a particular frequency, but we would still need to find the center of command and use it as a routing point if we want to fry all of them. I'd say EMP's are a long shot, Birdbrain."

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Clint replied. He stuck an arrow into the rebooting bot at his feet before replacing it in his quiver and stretching experimentally. His leg twinged unhappily simply looking at the long run back into position atop the opposite building, There was no doubt in his mind, powers would be awesome…but he'd settle for a super-suit. "You in the area, Tony?"

"Awe, Feathers, do you need a ride?" Tony asked. The Iron Man suit flew around the corner, fired off a plasma blast at an approaching bot, and clomped to the ground next to Clint. Tony's face plate slid up to reveal a smirk. "Returning you to your nest is becoming a real burden on my ability to crush Hammer's toys."

As if Clint didn't already know he was inconvenient. "Can it, Tin Man," Clint responded. "You think you can drop me off on the S.H.I.E.L.D. landing pad?"

"Better clench up, Legolas," Tony said, hardly giving Clint a moment to prepare before grabbing him and rocketing into the sky.

Clint's stomach lurched, all of his concentration going toward not vomiting and not blacking out. It may be easy going from zero to sixty in the suit, but outside was a different story. The air slapped at Clint, stinging his face while the sudden change in momentum and height left him disoriented. Tony dropped him a few feet from the roof, higher than both of them expected, and Clint staggered to keep his feet under him when the pavement rushed to meet him.

He hit the ground hard, his left leg trying to buckle under him as pain flared through it, but Clint kept on his feet. He moved slowly to the edge of the roof, ignoring how his leg wanted to limp, and readied an arrow. "Next time give a guy a warning, would ya? That red target on the roof's for aircrafts not for dropping human bodies, Stark," Clint said.

"I'm sorry, all I heard was 'Thank you, Tony, for carrying my heavy ass so I wouldn't have to walk,'" Stark replied.

Clint opened his mouth to reply when the drone of dozens of robots filled the air, silver bodies rising from the east and making their way toward them.

"You see that, Birdbrain?" Stark asked, repulsors firing as he jetted toward them.

"Time for round two," Clint said, firing arrows at the silver tide. "Somebody better call in Big Green."

Clint's words were met with radio silence from Stark, not that he expected a reply. In fact, Clint wouldn't be surprised if he didn't hear from him the rest of the fight. They got along fine; besides Tasha, Tony was the person with whom Clint had the best relationship. They both enjoyed talking, but it wasn't like Tony needed Clint. Clint wasn't a genius like Bruce.

And speaking of Bruce, Bruce had been weird around Clint ever since the Helicarrier incident. He was kinda like Steve and Thor. But while Steve and Thor ignored him, left him to work by himself, Bruce actively avoided him. Clint figured it had to do with the fact that Clint forced out the Hulk by exploding part of the Helicarrier. He felt guilty about it, honestly, and more than once he had gone to apologize to Bruce only to see him tense up and look for an escape when he got too close.

Clint always chickened out at the last second, ducking away and watching Banner relax from a safe distance. The worst part was that Clint respected Dr. Banner and wanted his help on more than one occasion. Clint was a walking disaster on the best of days, not a week going by without a new bruise, cut, or sprained limb. He knew Dr. Banner was primarily a physicist, but he had spent time as a physician in India. Clint had hoped Bruce would be able to help when the injuries were questionable since he hated hospitals and tended to hate doctors more. Bruce would be better than S.H.I.E.L.D. infirmary any day if only Bruce didn't get that nervous, twitchy look in his eye anytime Clint approached.

He tried being nicer, kept his distance and let Bruce have his space. As far as the Other Guy went, Clint thought he seemed less agitated by him, maybe even a little amused. Clint was one of the few Avengers to treat Hulk like he wasn't a threat and maybe Hulk liked him for it. Unfortunately, it was Bruce who needed to like him, not Hulk, and there was only so much he could do to soften the scientist. After almost four months of failed attempts, Clint stopped bothering him.

He let Steve call in the Code Green, not wanting to alarm the doctor any more than necessary, and Clint waved the green giant toward the tide of robots between his own shots. Little steps, Clint reminded himself.

Hulk certainly helped speed up the battle. Between him and Thor smashing Adaptoids to pieces and the others shooting down the rest, the zone quickly started to empty. Tony was out of sight, Hulk and Thor were steadily making their way toward the source of the Adaptoids, all while Nat and Steve kept the front of the building clear. The battle was all but over when Clint caught sight of Justin Hammer sneaking into a sleek black car near a warehouse fifteen blocks down. He wanted to roll his eyes at the unimaginativeness of villains, instead taping his com and relaying the information to Tasha.

He was ready to follow her to Hammer's location, a second grappling arrow pulled out for him to take a shortcut to the ground (hopefully a ride with a lighter landing), when she asked for Steve to back her up. They hopped on a couple of motorcycles they had taken from the Quinjet and sped off in the right direction, leaving Clint alone to keep an eye on the building.

Clint could handle the building alone, that wasn't the issue. What made him hesitate was that Tasha and him were a team. They were the legendary Strike Team Delta, and if there was something that needed to be done, they did it together. She was his best friend, but she was ignoring him. The last two months, Natasha would work with Steve, Thor, hell…even Tony before she would work with Clint when before it wasn't even a question. Was she angry at him? He racked his brain for a reason…the Tessaract? Not being there when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell? But they had suffered through worse. They watched each other almost die multiple times, but recently she had been acting more like the Black Widow than Natasha.

It hurt. More than he'd like to admit. The others ignoring him, forgetting him, and avoiding him Clint could sustain as long as he still had Tasha. He replaced the arrow in his quiver feeling rejected. He didn't understand what was happening with the team, why he suddenly felt so sensitive and raw.

He was alone. Literally. It wasn't the other Avengers' faults, he was convinced of that fact. It had to be him, and he would fix it if only he knew how. Maybe he would leave. They might not even notice. He shook his head, refocused on the job at hand as Tony's voice traveled through the com with a plan based on the information Nat and Steve easily weaseled out of Hammer.

Whatever Stark had planned, Clint prayed he worked quickly. Sensing weakness, twenty of the Adaptoids were headed toward the storage facility, beams trained on Clint. He ducked behind a concrete ledge, taking stock. Six arrows. He had twenty Adaptoids and six arrows. Futzing awesome. A putty arrow, cable arrow, boomerang arrow…he wasn't sure how that got in his quiver…, two regular arrows, and a sonic arrow were all he had to protect some of the world's most dangerous weapons.

The putty arrow would stick some of them together, maybe force them into a heap on the ground. The cable arrow would pierce two, maybe three Adaptoids and slow them down. His best bet was the sonic arrow, boost up the blast and hit them in the middle. It could disrupt whatever signal was sent to them and could cause some damage to the internal wiring. It would also hurt Clint himself. They were too close and the blast would reach Clint, doing who knows what. Save S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons or himself?

Clint readied the sonic arrow, took a breath, and stepped out to fire it in one smooth, controlled motion. It hit its target, the concussive blast sending a huge shockwave through the air. The power of it echoed through his chest, his head, his entire body. Pain raged through his ears and he blearily watched the Adaptoids fall to the ground before something hit him hard in the back and everything went silent as he tipped over the edge of the building.

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Okay. It looked bad. Clint hurt everywhere, his left leg was sprained (possibly fractured), his ribs were cracked, concussion was in full swing, right shoulder hurt like hell, and he could feel the blood, sweat, and dirt caking the sides of his head. A small part of Clint was thankful he had already lost his hearing because that blast would have destroyed his eardrums and left him in rehab for months. Factoring out his pre-existing deafness, he might only be in the hospital for weeks.

It was the cable arrow, the one he planned to use to join Nat, which ultimately saved his life. He didn't know how he fired it into the wall, but it slowed him down enough to hit the dumpster with energy to stun not kill him. He fell at least eight stories into a futzing dumpster.

God, he wished he had powers. Or better luck.

Clint pulled the useless communicator and hearing aids carefully out of his tender ears, gingerly putting them into his pocket. Pushing aside the cracked garbage cover, he slowly managed to heave himself out of the bin. One foot in front of the other, he reminded himself. His good hand tightened around his bow which had miraculously survived the fall.

He started walking toward the front of the S.H.I.E.L.D. armory, his feet shuffling on the concrete. It was only when he realized the streets were devoid of metal robots and no agents were bustling around in crisp uniforms that he suspected he had lost consciousness at some point.

A quiver sized bruise made itself known when Clint leaned against the wall for support so he could check his watch for the time. Sure enough, he had been out for a solid hour. Plenty of time for the crime scene to be cleared. Too bad S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't simply throw advanced robotics into the trash…someone might have found him earlier.

The pang in his chest when he started walking again wasn't completely from the fall. Somebody would have found him in the dumpster if they went looking for him. The Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D., none of them had searched for him when he failed to show up after the battle. Hell, they probably never even realized he was missing.

Dramatic much, Clint thought to himself as he sank into a spare S.H.I.E.L.D. car and drove away. It probably wasn't their fault. For all he knew they were still chasing down Hammer or tried to contact him on his busted communicator or were looking for him or…

Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they were tired of the frail, human archer trying to fit in where he didn't belong. Perhaps they wanted someone better, someone who healed quicker, had some kind of animal power, or could be more than just "the guy who shoots arrows."

Except he was more than the arrows guy, Clint told himself. He never missed a single shot. He wasn't a genius but he was smart, and he always had his teammates' backs. Clint parked and entered the elevator to Avenger's Tower in higher spirits. The button for his floor lit up as he pressed it, his intentions to grab his spare hearing aids then head to the medical floor. He was by no means perfect, but he did his job well.

The door opened, the suddenness of it making Clint twitch. Sometimes he hated how jumpy he was during the first couple hours of silence. Clint's bed never looked so enticing as it did then, but he gathered his strength and limped over to his dresser, knowing he needed medical today. He rummaged inside, found an old pair of over the ear aids and shoved them into his pocket. His bow and quiver were dropped on the floor for him to put away later.

He headed toward the elevator, hesitating before getting inside. He couldn't hear J.A.R.V.I.S., but the AI could hear him. It might be worth asking it to show him where the other Avengers were currently. He didn't think they were in any trouble, but it never hurt to check. "J.A.R.V.I.S., can you show me the other Avengers?"

Clint didn't hear anything, obviously, but the television flickered to life and an image formed on the screen. They were together, that was good. Nobody looked hurt, and that was better. In fact, they were laughing or smiling. Everyone except Nat was in their civies, Hulk having transformed back into Bruce who slumped near the coffee pot. They were enjoying the success of a battle well fought…without him.

He didn't need to be with them, and he wasn't angry that they were having a good time, but he couldn't help feeling dejected. They had forgotten about him. Speculating earlier had hurt, sure, but actually seeing that they didn't even realize he was gone made his stomach knot-up unpleasantly. Any good feelings he had earlier vaporized in an instant.

He turned away, his good hand rubbing the back of his head before he pressed the bottom for the ground floor. Suddenly the medical floor didn't look all that appealing. The S.H.I.E.L.D. medical infirmary almost five blocks away sounded better.

He half limped, half dragged himself onto the street and headed toward S.H.I.E.L.D. and its infirmary, forgetting about the car. The Avengers didn't need him. The thought circled over and over in his head, eating away at him. Why did they keep him around? So they could make fun of him when he wasn't there? Laugh at the weakling?

He bumped into someone, barely registering the rapid speech of a burned face as he rushed an apology and kept walking. S.H.I.E.L.D. was around the corner. Maybe Clint would ask for a solo mission out of the country. Or maybe he'd rent an apartment of his own, he thought, as he crossed in front of an open house.

It'd get him away from the Avengers for a while, let him work his fingers to the bone in an attempt to prove to himself he could be a valuable asset. They didn't need him. Clint knew if he were to suddenly vanish, he would never be missed.

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In the end, Clint spent a couple of days at S.H.I.E.L.D. before returning to Avengers Tower. It was selfish of him to consider leaving. The Avengers…well, they didn't need him and they didn't notice he was gone, but they expected him to be there during fights.

With that in mind, Clint slunk through the back door of the Tower late at night, and rode the elevator directly up to his room. There wasn't much decoration, but the familiar furnishings were a welcome sight. He kicked off his purple converse and all but collapsed onto the couch in his living room.

He ached everywhere; his ribs, his head, his hair. Was it possible for hair to ache? His did. He reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the hearing aids poking into his hip. He set them onto the coffee table, his ears still too tender to have them in now.

Sighing, he tucked his head into the corner of his arm. That was an issue in and of itself. He hadn't told the Avengers yet, not even Tasha, but after what happened with Hammer, he knew he would need to come clean soon. He didn't consider it a liability, but others would…the Avengers would. They wouldn't think about all the previous fights he'd helped them win, they'd worry about how his lack of hearing might affect communication or allow him to be snuck up on at an integral point.

Tasha would kill him when she found out he had been keeping this a secret from her for well over a year. Maybe he'd tell her first and let her kill him so he wouldn't have to tell the others.

Unfortunately, Nat was currently on a mission with S.H.I.E.L.D. that would take her a few weeks to complete. She was the only Avenger who seemed to show an interest in him, or at least used to show an interest in him. She had left for the mission without saying anything to him. In fact, if he hadn't overheard Steve mentioning her absence to Bruce, he wouldn't even have known she was gone. He didn't know where her head was at these days. But if it physically wasn't at Avengers Tower, that gave him more time to squirrel himself away in his room and plan out his confession.

And provided there weren't any calls to assemble, that's exactly what he intended to do…after he slept, of course. Clint burrowed deeper into the couch, one leg hanging off the armrest from where he laid on his stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he got a good night's sleep. Nightmares woke him up and doubts kept him awake, but maybe this time would be the exception.

As his eyes drifted closed and his body became blissfully heavy with exhaustion, he happily thought to himself that even if the alarm rang, he wouldn't be able to hear it with his hearing aids out. He could sleep as long as he wanted.

Selfish again, Clint realized, but he was too tired to care.

Clint slept for almost six hours, a personal best in the last couple of months. His quiet night was the prelude to a quiet week. With no emergencies and no calls to assemble, Clint spent his days either practicing in the shooting range or attempting to convince himself that he wasn't actively hiding from the Avengers.

In his defense, he almost attended an unofficial team dinner. Pepper had sent out an e-mail to everyone on Tony's behalf, inviting them all to join in for a group dinner. He was half-way to the communal kitchen after a long day of practice in the shooting range when he realized he didn't have his hearing aids. Clint may be proficient at reading lips, but even he couldn't keep up with multiple conversations at once. He thought about running to grab them from his room, but they were the over-the-ear kind and besides being visible, they would hurt like hell in his still healing ear canals.

The other option was bringing it up to the others then and there. Maybe he could even convince Tony to take a look at them for improvements. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s were good, but they had nothing on Stark tech. The idea was tempting, and if Nat were there to glare at everyone who dared to question why he was still on the team, maybe he would have gone through with it.

Who was he kidding, he wouldn't have done it. He'd still be walking back to his room to make a pot of coffee and eat energy bars in self-imposed solitary confinement.

That was his problem. He spent too much time alone with his thoughts and inferiority complex instead of trying to make things better. He should have spent more time bonding with the team, getting to know them. He probably could have done a better job of letting them know more about himself, too. Nothing major, of course. He wouldn't tell them about his past, his time with S.H.I.E.L.D., or anything like that, but he could have told them something.

A simple, "My favorite color is purple, I love bows and arrows, and I'm a walking disaster," might have reminded them to check for the guy in a purple uniform shooting arrows with a bow who had a tendency of getting into trouble.

And really, Clint was starting to get annoyed with evil groups like A.I.M. and their determination to hurt him. Clint thought A.I.M. had been destroyed when Tony went head to head with Aldrich Killian, but the week before Nat was scheduled to return they resurfaced. He wasn't sure where they crawled out of, some unknown subdivision of A.I.M. with a fetish for yellow hazard suits, but the Avengers were inevitably sent to stop them when they started destroying the city. It sounded like a simple mission, and for the most part it was. Start to finish, Clint estimated the fight took thirty minutes. Most of the A.I.M. agents were handcuffed and being shuttled into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody while the rest had scuttled off to hide. Cap and Stark were going over mission details with Director Fury while Thor wrestled the Hulk into submission. As for Clint, he was collecting used arrows and keeping an eye on everything from a distance.

For once, the only part of him that ached was his head. S.H.I.E.L.D. gave him an extra pair of invisible hearing aids with a built in communicator before the fight, but they irritated his ears. He could tell his canals were inflamed; in fact, he would have predicted as much before the fight when he shoved them in and they settled uncomfortably into place. Sparing a glance at the preoccupied Avengers, Clint quickly pulled out his hearing aids, relishing the release of pressure.

That was his first mistake.

His second mistake was pocketing the hearing aids and stepping out of sight to gather more arrows.

Clint wasn't sure how he missed the guy in a bright yellow suit hiding next to the dumpster…and really, what was it with him and dumpsters?...but at least he got a solid punch into the guy's face before the Taser shocked him and Clint slumped into a twitching heap on the ground.

As they loaded him into a non-descript van, Clint prayed the Avengers would realize he was missing, because this? This looked very, very bad.

Chapter Text

For a group called “Advanced Idea Mechanics”, A.I.M. wasn’t the brainiest bunch of villains Clint had encountered. True, they got points for removing his communicator/hearing aids and weapons from him, but chucking them in the dumpster where anyone could find them was sloppy. Anyone who knew Clint would realize he’d never trash his gear, and it would immediately draw red flags.

Not to mention, they blindfolded him but didn’t bother taking extra turns or going out of their way to throw him off track. If Clint could escape, he’d not only be able to reach the exact alley they picked him up at, he’d be able to point out where they stopped for coffee. Perhaps the most informative clue of their lackluster intelligence, though, was the fact that none of them realized he couldn’t hear a single damn word they said.

The van stopped after about an hour of driving. They pulled him roughly from the vehicle, jostled him through winding halls, and pushed him down stairs with the patience of wildfire. A few times they must have tried to say something to him because one of them jabbed him harshly in the side with an elbow before shoving him in a different direction. It was almost a relief when they shackled him with short chains to a wall, the blindfold finally removed from his face and leaving him blinking in the bright light.

It wasn’t a surprise when his guards started hitting him. Sadly, this wasn’t Clint’s first kidnapping. A few solid punches to the gut, a cracked rib, and a mild headshot were usually par for the course. There was probably mocking and taunting going on as well, but again…Clint couldn’t hear a damn thing they said.

And he planned to use that to his advantage. The funny thing about torture and interrogation, Clint thought, was that you can’t get answers from somebody who doesn’t know the question. Tasha might beg to differ, but his captors were definitely not kick-ass Russian spies with the ability to know a person’s life history by the way they stand. Right then, ignorance was bliss. Of course Clint wouldn’t give anything away even if he could hear, not being able to hear their demands simply made it easier to play dumb.

After a while the first guards left and the torture crew entered. They wheeled in a table of gleaming metal tools, the primary torturer’s hand lingering over them with staged deliberation before picking up iron knuckles.

Clint looked away, steeling himself for the pain. It was going to hurt…but he’d had worse. He let his mind wander when the interrogator began, doing his best to scan the room for weaknesses and think about anything except the punches bashing against him. He could tell when his silence started to anger them, the knuckles being put down for knives.

Maybe it was blood loss or the half dozen punches to the head, but for Clint, everything was a little foggy around the point they gave up on knives and brought out a hammer, threatening to break bones. He could remember grinning, looking up at his torturer through half lidded eyes and saying something witty…and Clint knew it was witty because the guy somehow managed to look even angrier before smashing the hammer into his left forearm.

Agony ripped through his body, white-hot where he knew they had broken the bone. Stars crossed before his eye, the muscles tightening and trying to draw his arm in where it was shackled. He may have yelled or let out a grunt…Clint hoped like hell that he didn’t whimper…before everything went black and he slumped to the floor.

Clint had no idea how long he was out for, slivers of awareness popping up before he fell back into unconsciousness. It could have been hours or days later when he actually woke up and stayed awake. His arm was poorly splinted and wounds somewhat bandaged, a sandwich on a napkin and water in a Styrofoam cup left barely in his reach. After all, he couldn’t die yet. A.I.M. needed him to stay alive and healthy, at least, healthy in the loosest definition…coherent was probably a better word, Clint thought.

Clint tentatively ate and drank, surveying the room again as best as he could. Security was less than he expected, A.I.M. underestimating him like many others, and if he could get out of the shackles, he could definitely get out of the room. Sturdy metal, weak locks…it was doable. For an ex-carnie turned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, escaping a pair of handcuffs was child’s play provided he could get his hands on a paperclip or small wire.

The only issue was the small group of people currently making their way into the room, baseball bats slung over their shoulders. Clint pushed his garbage aside, wondering if it was worth the effort to fight back and block their blows. In the end, protecting his head and broken arm was the best Clint could do. He redirected their hits to less vulnerable places, keeping the damage to a minimum until he lost consciousness again.

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Clint knew they’d kept him captive for almost a week now. A small part of him hoped the Avengers would have noticed he was missing and set out on a gallant rescue mission. The larger part of him knew there would be no end to this literal torture. If he wanted to get out, he’d have to do it himself.

So far his attempts to snatch objects from his torturers had been thwarted. Clint had managed a couple of retaliatory punches to his captors, using the distraction for flighty attempts to grab objects away from them but they were surprisingly good at keeping anything he could possibly use as weapons away from his wandering hands.

Each attempt was followed by a thorough beating, but soon Clint knew which guards had the slowest reflexes, which guards were the most easily provoked, and which guards ignored safety protocols by bringing their keys into the room. Clint memorized the faces and routine of everyone who entered his room. And now he had another plan.

The first guard he saw every morning was an average, normal middle aged man who was usually too tired to do any major damage. He threw a couple of punches, tried talking to him, and ended by shocking him with a low-grade Taser. He wasn’t the most “creative” torturer Clint had the misfortune of meeting, but he carried the keys with him, could be angered enough to move within easy striking distance, and frequently brought a metal thermos Clint had taken to eyeing as a potential weapon to knock him out.

Of all the guards, he was Clint’s favorite. Mostly because Clint was certain he could provoke the man to step closer today, steal his keys, and finally get the hell out of dodge. Clint had everything perfectly planned; he knew that he could use the man’s ID card and keys to open doors, then the gun to disable people who tried to stop him.

Which is why it came as a surprise when several new faces entered the room an hour before Mr. Average Joe’s scheduled appearance during what Clint fondly thought of as his “free hour”.

The people who entered carried high level badges and milled around near the edges of the room instead of jumping right into torture as the usuals did. They talked in whispers, casting glances over at him as they waited for someone. Their director, Clint realized as he pushed his tired mind and aching muscles to alertness.

When the head villain finally arrived, after taking his sweet damn time Clint thought irritably, they jolted into military straight stances where they stood against the walls. They hailed him as the scientist…supreme, maybe? Clint couldn’t tell exactly what the second word was, but it sounded like a higher-than-thou title. The man was about six feet tall, his brown hair slicked back, and green eyes shining over prominent cheekbones. Added with the long black lab-coat and black gloves, Clint thought he was going for an intimidating, Fury-esq look that missed the mark and flew toward the ridiculous.

The man’s thin lips tightened into the barest of smiles, before he… introduced himself? Names were difficult to lip read, but he definitely said something about Clint, S.H.I.E.L.D., and tech. The rest was lost as he turned around, but if he wanted Clint to spill secrets about S.H.I.E.L.D. tech, he nabbed the wrong person.

Clint shifted, trying to keep it casual as he leaned for a better view of his captor and what he might be saying. Immediately, the guards on either side of him raised their guns toward him, looking nervous. The head scientist turned around and Clint pasted on his biggest shit-eating grin.

“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t work with the fancy tech. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Clint said.

“We [all ready?] have the machine, Agent Barton,” Clint saw the man say. “We need…control it. Rumor has it……….[mine? No…mind] control. The Scepter…” Clint looked away, not wanting to see any more.

They wanted Loki's Scepter. Clint hated that thing, the blue glow still haunting his darkest nightmares. They must not know that S.H.I.E.L.D, grudgingly, gave it back to Asgard. But they wanted to use it on a machine? As far as Clint was aware, the thing didn’t work on tech. They were building something then. Something that they needed to control. Something that was part human or alien?

He was snapped from his thoughts by the literal snapping of his jaw as a fist connected with it, sending a chatter through his teeth. The Scientist Supreme hovered over him, gloved fingers tightening over Clint’s jaw and they forced Clint’s eyes meet his.

“Listen closely,” Clint saw the Scientist say slowly. “You’re not much of an Avenger, but you will tell us everything, whether you want to or not. Then we will sell you to the highest bidder. They can force out your secrets themselves. Organizations like ours are working together… HYDRA is very interested in you.”

“Then maybe you can give them a message for me,” Clint said, using his words to cover the noise of his chains rattling. When the Scientist Supreme leaned closer to hear what Clint would say, Clint used the opportunity to ram his forehead into the other man’s face and grab at him with his good arm. Clint felt the Scientist Supreme’s nose break, blood gushing onto his black lab coat as he blindly moved away. Half a dozen hands immediately grabbed Clint, slamming him into the wall and proceeding to attack him.

Clint curled up as best as he could to protect his arm, stomach, and head. He caught sight of the Scientist Supreme yelling as he stalked out of the door, pointing toward Clint as a few more goons joined the fray.

Clint was a black and blue mess of bruises, busted skin, and blood by the time all the A.I.M. henchmen had tired and left. His head was throbbing, his own nose was broken in revenge, and his left forearm burned where they had torn off the splint and squeezed the broken edges of his bones together. But pain and discomfort aside, Clint couldn’t help but smile when he uncurled and held his prize. Head-butting the Scientist Supreme wasn’t just an act of defiance, though it felt damned good at the time. It was a distraction, during which Clint had swiped a fancy pen from the doc’s pocket to pick apart the locks and hopefully find a way out.

He disassembled the pen, using the small metal pieces to pick the lock of his handcuffs in seconds. Moving forward cautiously, he examined the door with a grim smile, again thanking whoever deemed him less of a threat and decided to imprison him in a room with basic locks.

Next was the difficult part. He couldn’t see outside and he couldn’t hear when anyone was coming. He didn’t have a weapon, any keys…any of the luxuries he would have stolen had his original plan been played out; There was some vibration through the floor when people approached, but that was all he knew about what might be outside the door. He could always wait until someone came in, try and free them of their weapon, except they might send in more people than he could handle.

Might as well go for it, Clint thought. His swollen left arm painfully gripped the door while the right clenched his makeshift weapon. Clint took a deep breath, preparing himself for a long, hard fight, and slowly opened the door.

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Captain America may be a modern, technologically competent figure in the public eye, but behind the scenes, Steve could admit there were some things in the 21st century he didn’t think he would ever fully understand. Staring at the elaborate text message from Stark on his cellular telephone telling him Director Fury needed them for a mission briefing was one of them.

Steve didn’t mean using the telephone, Natasha had shown him everything he had needed to know about how it worked. It was the impersonal quality of it that he bothered him. Not a day went by without him seeing crowds of people with their noses buried in their phones, never seeming to notice the interesting characters standing right next to them. It wasn’t like the old days when you talked freely with the people around you and actually had conversations.

Nowadays, people used text or e-mail or social media. They could see everything about a person but never know what they were like because they didn’t actually talk to them. Steve missed the simple days where you had to put in the effort to get to know somebody. He would much rather call someone and have a conversation than text, but Stark loved the technology obsessed shift in communication. Which is why Steve didn’t attempt to call Stark for more details like he wanted to and instead headed for the meeting room.

Natasha was still on assignment for S.H.I.E.L.D., but Bruce, Thor, and Stark (surprisingly) were already assembled when Steve arrived and took his seat. The only person missing was Hawkeye, but he had a rather annoying habit of showing up late so Steve didn’t give it much thought.

“What did Director Fury call us in for?” Steve asked, looking to Stark for an answer.

“I called you in to deal with HYDRA,” Director Fury said, entering the room at that moment and swiftly moving to stand before them. “It seems HYDRA is getting bolder. There are reports of gamma radiation consistent with that of the Tessaract coming from a previously known HYDRA base. We need you to infiltrate it and find out why it’s there.”

“I thought the Tessaract was returned to Asgard,” Bruce said, his gaze shifting from Director Fury to Thor.

“Indeed. The Tessaract has been returned to its rightful place,” Thor said. “It cannot have been stolen by mortal men.”

“It seems Loki's Scepter gives off similar gamma radiation. It was stolen when HYDRA was outed as a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Director Fury said. “We believe it was removed from security during Alexander Pierce’s time as Director.”

“I see, so now you need us to pick up after your mistakes,” Stark said. He leaned forward, pulling up information on the Scepter above the table on one of his hologram pictures and flicked through the information. “Why don’t you get one of your agents to find it for you? Attacking their base doesn’t sound like something you need the Avengers for, and it wouldn’t exactly bring us good publicity.”

“It’s our duty to make sure Loki’s scepter stays out of the wrong hands,” Steve said. “It’s our responsibility to make sure nothing like New York happens again.”

“Is it though?” Tony asked, the corner of his lip quirking up as he contemplated it. “And speaking of the scepter, shouldn’t we be waiting for Birdbrain’s lazy ass to wander in before discussing this? Considering he is the only one of us with any real experience with the scepter’s powers.”

“Agent Barton was told Loki's Scepter is on Asgard. He is not available for the mission,” Fury replied.

“Why not? S.H.I.E.L.D. has him pulled from active field duty for another month. You wanted to lie to him; that's your mistake. If anyone has a say about finding Loki’s scepter, it’s him,” Tony said. “J.A.R.V.I.S., wake Hawkeye up and send him to the main hall for a town meeting.”

Stark was wrong about the scepter not being their responsibility, but Steve thought he made a fair point about Hawkeye. He ought to have a say in this discussion, but the man’s chronic tardiness was enough to drive Steve batty. They would have to start this conversation all over again all because of Hawkeye’s rude and inconsiderate-

“Agent Barton has not been in the tower for the last fifteen days, and communication with him is unsuccessful,” J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice broke through the speaker.

“Agent Barton is M.I.A.,” Director Fury said tersely. “S.H.I.E.L.D. will continue our search for him while you check HYDRA’s base for the scepter.”

The room went quiet, Tony’s hologram fading away as he stared at Director Fury in disbelief. Steve couldn’t believe it was true either. He could have sworn he saw Hawkeye...not since they fought A.I.M.. How had he not realized the man was missing? To be fair, Hawkeye wasn’t the most sociable person, preferring to keep to his room, the roof, or the range, but Steve should have noticed when he didn’t return to the tower.

Except he didn’t. In fact, the longer Steve thought about it, he couldn’t recall the last time he had checked in with the archer to make sure he was alright, much less held a conversation with him.

“What do you mean he’s missing?” Stark demanded, standing up and starting to pace. “How long has S.H.I.E.L.D. known about this?”

“Agent Barton missed his scheduled check in two days after the fight against A.I.M. two weeks ago, at which time S.H.I.E.L.D. began searching for any trace of him,” Director Fury said. “His gear was discovered after the fight in a nearby dumpster along with his communicators.”

“Why did nobody inform us he was missing?” Steve asked, concern and irritation rising. “He’s our teammate, we ought to be looking for him.”

“Screw the mission,” Tony said. “We need to be looking for Barton.”

“It is not S.H.I.E.L.D.’s fault that the Avenger’s did not realize their teammate had vanished, nor is it our obligation to inform you of his every step,” Director Fury said, his voice harsh and unforgiving. “You will complete the mission as planned, and then you will be informed of Agent Barton’s disappearance. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Stark said seethingly. “Send me the information so we can finish this.”

He stood up and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Meet at the jet in ten minutes,” Steve said to Thor and Bruce, watching them nod and leave the room. He turned to the director, Fury’s back to him as he stared out the window. “You should have told us sooner.”

“We needed the Avenger’s ready for anything,” Director Fury said. “We couldn’t have you chasing cold leads in search of Agent Barton when the world may need you. Agent Barton can take care of himself until S.H.I.E.L.D. finds him.”

“We deserved to know,” Steve said firmly. “He’s our teammate. If there is anything we could have done to find him sooner-“

“You failed to realize he was missing,” Director Fury interrupted. “You can criticize S.H.I.E.L.D. if you like for not informing you sooner, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has done more in terms of finding Agent Barton than the Avengers have in the last two weeks. I suggest you prepare for the mission and we will discuss this later.”

There were things in the 21st century that Steve would never fully understand. While he walked back to his room to grab his suit and prepare for the flight, Steve thought again about how impersonal and isolating it was to always have technology between you and the person you are getting to know. But thinking about Hawkeye, how he never realized he hadn’t returned to the tower, Steve realized with a pang that it was much worse not getting to know a person because you never said anything to them.

Chapter Text

Tony Stark was a multitasker. For the genius inventor, juggling half a dozen projects for Stark Industries, pending upgrades for the Iron Man suit, and miscellaneous Avenger’s duties was as simple as mastering thermonuclear astrophysics overnight. In Tony’s humble opinion, his intellect and speed of thought was rivaled by none except Banner, and Bruce was only in the running because he spent so much time with Tony.

So if Tony could handle all these tasks without a perfect hair out of place, he should have zero issues squashing HYDRA and finding Barton at the same time.

The Quinjet was already inbound for the suspected HYDRA base, the remaining Avengers having analyzed the mission information from S.H.I.E.L.D. and ready for the fight. Tony was doubtful they would find anything, the shack of a base not large enough to warrant a mall cop, much less a fully equipped army and security measures to protect something as powerful as Loki’s scepter. Furthermore, Bruce said the Gamma radiation signal was weak. If anything, the building was temporary pit stop on the scepter’s journey to HYDRA’s secret vault of evil.

Still Tony thought, loath as he was to admit it, they might as well take a look for whatever secrets HYDRA was trying to hide. He could bypass security on their computers, try and track their activity to see where they took the scepter. If they could discover HYDRA’s next move, they could get ahead of them and retrieve the scepter before HYDRA figured out how to work it.

His only solace in taking the mission was that he already had J.A.R.V.I.S. scanning street security cameras from their battle against A.I.M., monitoring the tower for any incoming signals, and breaking through S.H.I.E.L.D. firewalls to uncover information about their missing birdie. They were going to find him.

Tony estimated that the battle would last no more than thirty minutes, ransacking their computers less than twenty, and by the end of the night, Barton would be sitting back at Avenger’s Tower, all thanks to the brilliant skills of one Tony Stark.

Tony was a genius. Everything was going to be fine.

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Tony Stark would never admit that he was wrong. Hasty in his calculation? Perhaps. He may have given HYDRA less credit than they deserved when it came to their defenses. He definitely was not wrong, though. But he may have overestimated exactly how well the battle against HYDRA was going to play out.

The first few minutes were great. They had stormed the castle, so to speak, taking the first line of defense by surprise. They were nearly at the door when everything went downhill fast, reinforcements arriving to secure the building. Bullet’s pinged off the Iron Man armor, not hurting Tony in the least, but they were annoying and drew his attention away from getting inside. Cap had his hands full, practically spinning in circles to keep HYDRA agents off his back. Thor was having similar problems and the Hulk? Well, the Hulk was pretty much unstoppable as he took out the bigger weapons, but the point was that without the Avenger’s two resident assassin’s helping to watch their back’s, the battle was long and difficult.

What should have been a short and easy fight was actually an hour long struggle that ended with more bruises and scrapes than answers. Information in the compound was minimal. No revealing paperwork, all the computers were encrypted by heavy security, and it seemed unlikely the agents they captured would say anything.

This was going to take time, Tony realized resentfully. He hated waiting. His impatient streak was nearly as large as his ego, and his frustration only grew when he finally made his weary way back to the Quinjet hours later to discover J.A.R.V.I.S. had downloaded the information regarding Barton from S.H.I.E.L.D. but hadn’t found anything useful about Hawkeye’s location.

Tony couldn’t muster up any joviality or sarcasm when he relayed the information to the others, sending copies of what he had acquired to each of them to analyze. He was angry at Fury for hiding Barton’s absence, angry at himself for not noticing he was gone, and really angry at Rogers for his calm and unperturbed reaction to all of this. If the star-spangled man gave him that empathetic, “we’ll get through this together” look one more time, Tony was going to punch him.

If they could only get him back, Tony was sure Barton would agree with him.

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Clint Barton knew he was many things. Stubborn, hot-headed, self-depreciating…kind of an asshole. He was many things, a lot of them bad…but he wasn’t helpless.

Nobody attacked him when he cracked open the door; however, the surveillance camera sitting above and to the left near the ceiling was going to be a problem. There was no doubt in his mind that even though the camera wasn’t focused on him now, he’d be caught the second he stepped fully out of the room. He tested the weight of the reassembled pen in his hand thinking. It was heavy enough and sturdy enough to break the camera. With that in mind, Clint took aim and threw it with the type of precision that earned him the title of the world’s best marksman.

The shattering of glass and cracking of plastic was worth losing his makeshift weapon as the tiny red light on the side of the camera flickered then shut off. Clint crept out of the room, moving through the thankfully empty hallway and crouched near an intersection to assess his situation.

His path was clear in both directions, not very useful since he had no idea where he currently was, but Clint figured he might as well choose a direction and go with it. He moved through the halls with all the stealth and speed of a natural thief turned S.H.I.E.L.D. assassin, quickly putting a fair amount of space between him and the room. The back of his neck prickled uneasily, each door he checked guarded with a blinking control panel that required a key card for entrance. On the bright side, after a few minutes of wandering, he managed to glance at a map before having to dart away when a nearby door suddenly opened.

This whole escape plan was going better than expected, Clint thought. He now knew he was going in the right direction, A.I.M. seemed to be too preoccupied to notice he was gone, and for the first time in a long time, he felt…not exactly confident, but close. Optimistic maybe? His current problem was that he needed to cross a series of labs and control rooms before he could reach an exit, but truth be told, his luck had never lasted this long before. It was kinda nice being able to sneak around without running into anyone. Was this what it felt like to be Stark and Cap? Clint could get used to it. It was better than fighting off an army every time he was-

Lights flashed everywhere, the walls and floor vibrating, and damn, those alarms were loud because Clint swore he could hear the slightest ringing in his ears. Clint tensed. They would be looking for him, the halls would be swarmed with yellow suited henchmen hovering around like wasps, and Clint had nothing to defend himself with besides his hands and his wits.

Futz. He should have known it was too good to be true. Clint ducked into a corner, crouching down in a doorway to hide, and strategized. He was close to the labs, could nearly taste fresh air, except that was also the busiest part of the compound. If he could get into a room, maybe find some weapons or an air vent he could navigate, he might yet have a shot of getting out.

Clint watched as a group of weapon wielding agents ran down the main hallway in the direction of his torture room. It wouldn’t be long before they discovered him. Making a run at them, catching them off guard, and hoping he could get a weapon before they realized what was happening was his best bet. Clint readied himself to run, eyes peeled to attack the next passing group, when suddenly a door ahead and to the left opened.

He didn’t hesitate.

Running at full speed…and boy did Clint love adrenaline because it would’ve been nearly impossible without it…Clint rammed into the unaware, yellow suited A.I.M. agent and sent them tumbling back into the room. They crashed to the floor, a nearby chair sent flying, and they both struggled briefly to catch their breath.

Clint recovered first, his body screaming in pain, but he pushed the thought aside to quickly scan the room and register that it was both a personal bedroom and empty. His opponent used the time to recover, rushing to their feet and clumsily raising the weapon.

Clint lunged, grappling with the A.I.M. agent and managing to shove them against a wall, successfully knocking the weapon out of range. The portly worker fought back and managed to get a knee into Clint’s side, getting loose for only a second before Clint kicked them hard. The assassin pushed his advantage and slammed his enemy’s head into the wall, watching as the stunned A.I.M. agent slid to the ground. Clint didn’t hesitate to yank off their helmet.

Needing to secure the agent’s silence, Clint avoided the ginger haired man’s attempts to ward him off and wrapped his good arm around the man’s neck in a choke hold. Eyes watching the now closed door for intruders, the assassin waited until the man’s thrashing stopped before releasing his grip.

The A.I.M. henchman wasn’t dead. Clint checked the man’s pulse, finding it slow but steady, before lowering him to the ground. He didn’t like to kill people when it wasn’t necessary, and for now, all he needed was for the man to be out of the way so he could have another moment to think.

The room was tiny with no vents or back door Clint could escape through. His only way out was through the door he entered, past the frantically searching mob of people. However, he had a weapon now. The A.I.M. henchman’s gun was fully loaded, and the key card would allow him access to any room the man had clearance to access.

It was a huge gamble. They outnumbered him, and even if Clint could get to the exit, he’d still have to find a way off of the property. Think positive, Clint reminded himself. What can you do to increase your odds of surviving? His eyes roved the room and stopped on the unconscious A.I.M. agent.

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This was one of the most ridiculous things he had ever done, Clint thought two minutes later as he stepped into the yellow hazard suit and zipped it up. It swamped his slighter form, the fabric hanging off of him and pooling at his feet. This definitely wasn’t going to work; it was a stupid idea. Clint knew he was stupid for thinking about going through with it.

But what choice did he have, Clint argued with himself. He picked up the helmet and pulled it on, taking a deep breath before stepping out into the hallway.

The area was crowded with A.I.M. employees, everyone jostling about from place to place as they searched for Hawkeye, A.I.M. becoming more frantic by the minute. Clint regulated his behavior, mimicking those around him and blending into the crowd as he followed them toward the center of command. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, his hand clenched around the weapon in case someone outed him and he had to fight. He hated the fact that he not only couldn’t hear, but the futzing masks everyone wore prevented him from knowing if they were staring at him or saying anything. It set him on edge and would have made him paranoid if Clint didn’t stamp down on those emotions before they made him screw up.

It was a small relief when the center of the compound came into view and Clint used the stolen key card to enter one of the smaller labs. Three scientists stood over test tubes on the far side of the room, looking up immediately, and Clint wasted no time in shooting them. The tranquilizer bullets in the gun were an unexpected but happy surprise when Clint first inspected them, and it was even better watching all of the scientists fall to the ground unconscious.

The chair to Clint’s left made a fantastic door block, guaranteeing Clint at least a few minutes alone as he moved to the computer furthest from the door. He wasted no time hacking into the grid, and while he wasn’t as good as Tony, it wasn’t long before he had opened a secure, private communication line to S.H.I.E.L.D. where they could track his location and hopefully access A.I.M.’s system.

Clint was about to leave, satisfied that whatever happened to him, S.H.I.E.L.D. could trace his location, when a file caught his attention. He wasn’t a spy for nothing, Clint thought as he opened the file labeled “M.O.D.O.K.”, scanning through the collection of documents. This was what the Scientist Supreme must have been talking about. There were blueprints, biological integration simulations, and about a dozen other scientific documents that would’ve had Stark and Banner drooling. Whatever they were planning, they were close. All they needed to do was ensure complete control of their human-machine hybrid. One of the pages even listed prospective investors, and Clint recognized a few HYDRA representatives as one of the buyers.

Director Fury would kill for this information. It had been almost ten minutes, too long for him to stay in one place, but Clint copied the data and sent it to S.H.I.E.L.D. anyway. He hesitated, uncertain whether it was the right move, before also forwarding the information along to Tony. Stark routinely hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint reasoned, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t find out about it on his own.

Clint hid his activity, returning the computer to its normal appearance and moved to the desks, ruffling up papers and opening drawers. He made a mess. If they thought he was searching for information on paper they wouldn’t immediately scan the computer and find his attempts to contact S.H.I.E.L.D..

Pleased with the small-scale destruction he had caused, Clint moved aside the chair and stepped outside. He carefully closed the door behind him, ready for a casual stroll to the exit…and he could hear Natasha’s voice in his head telling him to walk, don’t run when hiding…when it happened.

Clint bumped into someone. That was all that happened. A tiny bump that didn’t even move the person, but made them take a glance. Clint could tell by the way their hands moved that they asked him something, but hell if he knew the answer. He took a chance and turned, trying to lose himself again in the crowd and make his way toward an exit, but a glance back showed the person opening the door of the room he had just left.

They must have yelled. It was the only explanation for the chaos that erupted, everybody raising their weapons and pointing them around. Clint tried working his way swiftly out of sight, except someone had spotted him in his too large suit and realized he was ignoring the shouts. They rushed toward him, directing people to capture him, so Clint started shooting.

He took down more than a dozen people with his own gun, a handful dropping from friendly fire when he used them as shields. Clint took a head shot from a random fist, helmet flying off, and kept going. The assassin scrambled for the exit, kicking and punching to gain inch after inch, desperately fighting with all the energy he had left.

It was too much. There were too many of them. Clint left a trail of unconscious bodies behind him, but they still overwhelmed him. The A.I.M. henchmen dragged him to the ground, a swarm of bodies covering his, and he couldn’t move. When he felt a sudden prick on his neck, the room starting to fade in and out, he knew the fight was over.

It didn’t stop him from working up enough strength to land another kick on the person holding his legs. He grinned when they jerked away, shaking out their hand and caressing broken fingers. S.H.I.E.L.D. would find him, Clint told himself. And in the meantime, Clint would start planning for his next escape.

Chapter Text

Thor Odinson was deeply troubled. It had been nigh a week since Director Fury had first alerted the Avengers to the Hawk’s absence, and with no word on the man’s location, the team was disheartened and quickly falling into a distressed discontent.

Tony Stark, Thor noticed, had immediately locked himself in his laboratory of science, rarely slumbering and gaining sustenance from coffee and whatever food Lady Potts delivered to him. He was often joined by the good Doctor Banner, the two of them pouring over information obtained from S.H.I.E.L.D. and their own search. Their results, presently, had been in vain. Besides verifying that A.I.M. had indeed captured their friend, little had been found.

While the two scientists were occupied with their study, Steve Rogers was struggling under the burden of finding their teammate. Thor often accompanied him in his physical searches for the archer, their attempts to find witnesses to the Hawk’s capture unsuccessful, and their interrogations of A.I.M.’s warriors less than insightful.

The Captain of America was restless, his desperation to find Hawkeye was as visible to Thor as a Bilgesnipe trampling through an Asgardian dining room. It was difficult to miss the coiled muscles and determined set to their leader, not when Thor intimately knew the strain of leadership.

‘Twas not the first time Thor experienced a missing friend. It had been early in his years as a warrior, at a time he courted war and feared not the consequences, when Fandral disappeared during an attack on Vanaheim. The search was long and hard, many a foe falling before they were able to free Fandral from the enemy’s fortress, yet Thor could never forget his worry that his friend might be killed before they reached him. He had agonized for days over the feeling of helplessness that tormented him when it seemed they would not discover his whereabouts.

The relief of finding Fandral, scathed but alive, was forever burned in Thor’s memory. It was a feeling Thor was certain his teammates would soon experience, but until that moment came, Thor vowed he would do what was necessary to keep his fellow teammates in high spirits. He would share the burden placed upon their young Captain and team, working earnestly toward the archer’s safe return.

It was with that outlook that Thor currently sat gathered around a table with Steve and Bruce, awaiting the arrival of Stark. The Man of Iron had suddenly called for a meeting, his tone urgent and sharp. He had found something important, but what, Thor did not know. According to Doctor Banner, Barton’s location still eluded them.

The three of them sat in uncomfortable silence, avoiding eye contact as they ruminated on why Stark assembled them, when Thor decided to ask, “Have you heard word yet of Lady Natasha? I think she would gladly join us in the search for her partner.”

“I tried contacting her, but the mission Director Fury assigned her is apparently more complicated than expected,” Steve said. “She’ll be gone at least two more weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Bruce said timidly. He rubbed at the corner of his eyes tiredly, dark circles standing out on his pale skin. “Does she even know Barton’s missing?”

“Director Fury neglected to tell me that information,” Steve answered unhappily. “S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are trained to put the mission first, it’s hard to tell if she knows.”

“But Agent Barton is her partner,” Bruce said. “Surely Director Fury would make an exception.”

Whatever reply Steve intended to offer was cut off as Stark entered the room, taking stand at the head of the table and surveying the assembled Avenger’s.
“Good to see everyone’s invitations weren’t lost in the mail,” Tony said. “Although the turn-out isn’t as great as I’d hoped.”

“Why did you call us here, Tony?” Steve asked “I thought you were searching for Hawkeye.”

“I could say the same of you, Spangles,” Tony replied, staring pointedly at his gym clothes. “How many punching bags did you break? Two? Three?”

“Tony, please tell us why you called this meeting,” Bruce said wearily, hoping to avoid a fight.

“Because of this,” Tony said, pressing a button that sent a dozen holographic images into view. “J.A.R.V.I.S. keeps track of all Avengers’ battles, using satellites and local security cameras to record data. I’ve been going through footage and discovered an oversight on our part.”

“Is that Barton?” Bruce asked, pushing his glasses up his nose and leaning closer.

“Ten points to Ravenclaw,” Tony said. “Barton, it appears, has been slipping our gaze for longer than expected. These are videos from the last three months. You’ll notice Barton falling off buildings, getting stabbed, getting punched repeatedly by enemies, and generally being a living crash dummy. If you think this is bad, you should see his medical records.”

Thor watched the videos, his heart sinking as he watched his teammate fight unassisted. Had Barton truly returned from battle scarred as often as the videos suggested? Thor remembered the euphoria of battles well fought, he remembered reassuring Banner that his deeds as the Hulk were noble, and he even remembered discussing the aftermath with Stark and their Captain. But somehow Barton had eluded his attention.

“What’s the point of showing us this, Tony?” Steve asked, interrupting Thor’s thoughts. “Is it supposed to make us feel guilty?”

“You don’t feel guilty?” Tony asked accusingly. “Because the last time I checked, Barton was missing because we forgot he existed. Do you even check to make sure everyone makes it back okay?”

“Don’t put this all on me, Stark, you didn’t realize he was missing either,” Steve replied tersely. The tension between the two was palpable, the strain of their wayward teammate starting to weaken their growing friendship.

“True, but I’m not the captain. What was it you called me again? Selfish? The kind of guy who wouldn’t ‘lay on the wire’?” Tony said. “Narcissistic I may be, but I’m the one sifting through S.H.I.E.L.D. files and video footage trying to find Barton. What have you done besides bust open gym equipment?”

“You know damn well what I’ve done, Stark!” Steve said, pushing his chair aside to stand head to head with Tony. “Don’t you dare suggest I haven’t done anything to help find Barton.”

“Enough!” Thor shouted thunderously, the air sparking with electricity. “It matters not who was at fault. We all have had a role in Barton’s continued absence, but this endless quarreling does nothing to quicken his return. A.I.M. is to blame for Barton’s loss, and it is only by uniting together and ceasing to argue over past events that we will find him.”

“Thor’s right,” Bruce said quietly. “Agent Barton is relying on us. The more time we spend fighting with each other, the longer A.I.M. has him.”

Steve stepped away from Tony, still fuming but willing to table the discussion for a more opportune time.

Tony smirked, the grin not reaching his eyes. “File away the videos, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he said. “Pull up footage from the day Barton disappeared, maybe we can spot something we missed.”

“As you wish, Sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S.’s cool voice replied. “But I should inform you that you have recently received an encrypted message on your private e-mail from what appears to be Advanced Idea Mechanics.”

Stark grabbed for a Stark Pad, studiously working before an honest smile crossed his face. “Barton, you sly bastard. He sent us information on A.I.M. and opened a line of communication to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Does this mean you can track him?” Steve asked, his anger suddenly forgotten.

“It’ll take some time,” Tony said. “A.I.M. is probably trying to fix the leak as we speak, but I’m smarter than them. A few days, four maximum, and I’ll know where Birdbrain is.”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Clint hated drugs. He hated the foggy, misplaced feeling that clouded his mind when he woke up and couldn’t remember immediately where he was. It didn’t help that most of his experiences waking up from drugs included hospitals, restraints, or torture. Hell, one particularly disturbing mission had included all three at once.

As a result, when he woke up from whatever drugs A.I.M. had injected into his system, he fell back into one of his well-worn defense mechanisms…he froze. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, and to the outside world, he looked like he was still slumbering in a drug-induced sleep. And while they labored under the assumption that he was still unconscious, Clint analyzed his situation.

There was a pinched feeling in the crook of his right arm, probably from an I.V. of some kind, and the tugging sensation coming from that area suggested someone was futzing with the line. His mouth was vaguely salty, maybe from the IV? His captors didn’t seem to be the kind of people to give him fluids for health, there had to be something in it. Sodium Thiopental was his best guess. Except A.I.M. had to know S.H.I.E.L.D. trained all agents to withstand the truth serum’s effects.

It was a possibility. However, Clint sensed that there were more people in the room, so physically forcing answers out of him still wasn’t off the table. His chances of escaping were, well…minimal at the moment. He felt woozy and nauseous, his head ached, his body ached, and it felt like he was securely restrained. But needles and medical supplies made good tools, and when he finally found the energy to manage it, he could attempt a second escape.

In the meantime, Clint needed to open his eyes and find out how much trouble he was facing. He started slow, eyelids cracked apart enough that he could force his brain into focusing. He watched shadows move across his field of vision, and when his mind felt sharp enough to track the flow of conversation, he feigned waking up.

He swung his head to the side and let out a groan, attempting to raise his head then letting it fall as he blinked heavily. Making a show of effort, he finally raised his head to squint and stare stupidly around the small, steel walled room. He saw two of the A.I.M. agents share a smirk, and he worked to hold back a smile. If they really thought he would show them a weakness, if they underestimated him a second time, then Clint knew they hadn’t learned anything about him.

He let his tongue feel heavy as he purposefully slurred, “What d’you want from me?”

A lanky chestnut haired man opened his mouth to answer, but was silenced by a fierce glare from his apparent superior, a sharp faced woman with grey-flecked raven hair that stood at attention near the door. Clint hadn’t seen her before, in fact, he only recognized two of the eight people in the room. It was likely the Scientist Supreme had overhauled security after he escaped, and these less than chatty people were now entrusted with his imprisonment.

“Fine. If you ain’t gonna tell me what you want, can you tell me why only some of you wear masks?” Clint asked. His voice adopted a dangerous tone, one he’d learned from Natasha, and added, “Don’t get me wrong, I like that it helps me know who I’m gonna kill when I escape again.”

Eventually escape, Clint thought to himself as he kept a carefully calculated part murderous, part pathetic expression on his face. Enough to keep his threat level low yet make the weakest of them squirm at his bluff. Clint watched the same chestnut haired man who wanted to answer him earlier turn to his neighbor and worriedly mutter, “[could or should, maybe?] …wearing masks?” The A.I.M. agent’s neighbor scoffed, answered something along the lines of “they’re for subordinates”, except Clint cared less about the answer and more about the fact he had found the weakest link.

If the angry red tinge to their leader’s cheeks and the watchful stare she kept on Chestnut’s head was any indication, she too recognized he would be a liability. It wouldn’t help Clint if she had him removed, so he tugged futilely on the five inches of freedom from his arm restraints, drawing her attention to him.

As if on cue, the door opened and in walked the Scientist Supreme flanked on either side by scientists dressed in pristine white lab coats. He exchanged quiet words with the woman in charge before facing Clint with sour expression on his face.

“Three weeks my agents… [frying? Lying?] … you to speak with no [success? Yeah, probably success]” the Scientist Supreme said. “You are [something?] than we [taught?]”

Clint shrugged, figuring whatever the man said, the action would cover it. But three weeks? Aw, crap, he’d lost more time than he’d thought wasting away in that dingy dungeon. To be honest he was kinda disappointed nobody had rescued him yet. Not that he needed the help, but between the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D., the brightest and smartest people he’d ever had the fortune of knowing, he would have thought they had the resources to find him almost immediately.

If they were even looking for him.

Focus, Clint, the archer chastised himself. Now was not the time for his insecurities to make an appearance, not when he should be focusing on the villain’s monologue and finding out what drug they were injecting into him.

“-this will make you talk,” Clint caught the Scientist Supreme say. The man pulled a small clear bottle out of his pocket and held it to the light, pausing dramatically before passing it to the scientist on his left.

“This ain’t my first truth serum,” Clint said, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

“No. I suppose it [isn’t?]” the Scientist Supreme replied. “But this is [he said a chemical name, that much was certain, but it was nothing Clint recognized]. It’s new…unique ability to bind to…so it lasts [fifteen? Fifty?] times longer. And the side effects are [quiet?] something.”

The Scientist Supreme signaled to the scientist, and Clint watched as they drew the serum with a syringe from the small clear bottle. Nobody spoke as the scientist moved toward Clint, grasping the I.V. and injecting the substance into the port. Clint glared at the Scientist Supreme, not bothering to struggle even as the cold fluid entered his body, an odd and tingly feeling crossing his skin where it was pumped into his arm.

They were waiting, Clint guessed for the drug to take effect, and if the almost nervous looks on their faces were anything to go by, they weren’t one hundred percent sure what would happen. That’s okay, Clint decided, because he knew exactly what was going to happen. The second they tried to ask him anything, Clint was going to quit paying attention, avoid eye contact, and play a lovely game he liked to call “who’s going to punch me first?”

The strange thing, though, was that Clint didn’t feel like he was being drug. Whatever they gave him lacked the eye-crossing, mental numbing truth serum properties that were supposed to make people more open to spilling their guts. He felt almost normal. Well, as normal as he could be restrained to a chair and aching from head to toe because he’d had the crap beat out of him again…which actually wasn’t that far off from his average Thursday.

He watched the Scientist Supreme hold a quiet conversation with his scientists, looking smugger than he had any right to be, and Clint wanted nothing more than to let him know his serum was dud. But he held back, and suddenly Clint had an inkling of exactly what the side effects were.

After Clint had lost his hearing, he started having migraines. Skull splitting, searing migraines that left him curled in a ball wherever was dark, cool, and out of sight. They were incapacitating, could barely let him think let alone work, and he was thrilled when after a couple of months, he stopped having them. The blinding pain wracking through his skull and sending sparks of agony to the rest of his body, all thanks to A.I.M.’s truth serum, rivaled the worst of those headaches.

His breath caught in his throat, eyes slamming shut as he attempted to ride out the pain coursing through his body. It was brutal. It could have been seconds, maybe minutes before he was finally able to open his eyes and focus a pained gaze on the Scientist Supreme staring down at him with a sadistic grin.

He was talking about the serum, explaining away the finer intricacies of its brilliant design and why Clint would now be begging them to let him spill his secrets. To be honest, Clint wasn’t able to catch many of the details. But he got the gist of it. If he answered questions and said whatever was on his mind, he’d be okay. Try to keep quiet when he thought about something and his body would essentially zap itself with pain signals.

Clint had it under control. He had a great idea; a solid A+ plan that even Steve would approve.

Okay…it was a terrible idea.

But Clint figured the odds were good he wouldn’t have to suffer through anymore side effects if he pulled it off. He sat back in the chair, rolled his shoulders, and gave the room his best “you-asked-for-it” grin.

“Have any of you seen the new Star Wars movie?” Clint asked. “Because I have, and I’d love to talk about it with someone. Then once I finish spoiling that movie, we can talk about my favorite twist endings. Like in ‘The Sixth Sense’ where it turns out Bruce Willis was a ghost the entire time. Or that one episode of Dog Cops where Sargent Whiskers discovers who really killed Colonel Buddy…”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Ruining every movie, book, and television show he could think of for the A.I.M. agents maybe wasn’t his best idea, but it certainly got results. As long as Clint talked about whatever movie or trivia popped into his head, he didn’t have to hold back and suffer through another shock. Plus, seeing them steadily grow angrier as he said spoiler after spoiler was rather cathartic.

Up until the point they drugged him a second time, screamed questions at him, and when he failed to answer, started walloping him. Clint could barely see out of his right eye, body protesting from the slightest shift in position, and his muscles felt like lead. His throat was dry and scratchy from talking for so long, but they gave him some water so his words were audible. It was the gesture that mattered, Clint supposed.

He was alone currently, for the most part at least. A camera and microphone were angled toward him where they sat on the opposite side of the room, and while they underestimated him in some ways, they weren’t taking any chances of him saying anything when they weren’t there. Clint, for his part, was steadily working his way through the most annoying and catchiest songs he could remember. He didn’t envy the person who had to listen to him. He doubted he sang on-key, especially considering he couldn’t hear himself.

He was halfway through belting out “Eye of the Tiger” when she stormed through the door with the grace and stealth of a lioness. Clint couldn’t help a relieved smile from crossing his face, breaking his song off to mutter, “It’s about damn time.”

“Why do you always end up in these situations, Barton?” Natasha asked, her voice exasperated and amused in a way that Clint recognized as pure Nat. “It’s like you try to get caught.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Clint said, his face suddenly falling. His eyes shifted away from her, body stiffening.

“It matters that you endangered your team by forcing them to rescue you,” Natasha said harshly. “It matters that you were unaware of your surroundings, that you were sloppy, and that you got captured.”

Clint shrugged, grimacing subtly before mumbling, “Not really. You’re not real.”

“Is that so?” Natasha said, raising an eyebrow. “And what gives you that brilliant idea?”

I can hear you, Clint signed. He grinned half-heartedly and added, “Made it kinda obvious.”

“For that, you almost deserve to be an Avenger,” she replied scathingly.

And yeah, it was a hallucination, but it still hurt a little. Clint didn’t say anything, let drug’s burn distract him and send bright dots before his closed eyes. He started singing again when he caught his breath, and by the time he reopened his eyes, Tasha was gone.

Unfortunately, now that the hallucinations had started, they didn’t stop. They popped up whenever was most inconvenient: during interrogations, when he was seconds away from sleep, or when he was at the best part of a song. And it wasn’t just Natasha. He hallucinated the Avengers, his brother Barney, Trickshot, and the Swordsman. Hell, the worst was when Harold Barton made an appearance, drunk as always, to tell him he was a failure and that he deserved to have his ass kicked.

To be fair, it was a common theme whenever the hallucinations popped up. Being unworthy, causing people to die, his general stupidity. After a while they started to blur together, but Clint found that the longer he was there, the less he cared about what they accused him of doing.

Between the hallucinations, the torture…because of course they hadn’t stopped…, and the shocks of pain when he lost focus, Clint felt like crap. His lack of sleep wasn’t an unknown feeling, but it wasn’t pleasant either, certainly not when it was going on three, maybe four days. And as much as he enjoyed talking, the constant chatter was mentally exhausting.

Clint was in the middle of reciting the plot of every Harry Potter book to a pair of unamused A.I.M. agents, ignoring Barney’s glare, when he felt the ground rumble abnormally. It could have been an expected occurrence, but Clint didn’t think so from the way his captors tensed, shiftily surveying the room and readying their guns. One of them ran outside while the other agent, the one Clint recognized as the same chestnut haired man from his drugging ceremony, nervously paced the room and checked his communication line.

Clint watched with sharp eyes, sensing the agent’s agitation, and he looked for an opportunity. There were no weapons in the room, the needle was gone from his arm, and he doubted anymore pens would be allowed near him. The agent was headed toward him with a blindfold, something they hadn’t done before, and while he pulled it over Clint’s head, Clint reached his right hand sneakily into the man’s pocket with his limited range and pulled out a handful of objects, hoping there was something useful.

He hid them in the palm of his hand, fingers clenched tight against the unwelcome thrill of fire racing down his spine yet again, and waited for the vibration of footsteps to disappear. The reverberating slam of a door signaled he was alone and could check his findings.

It was mostly coins. Useful since he knew how to shoot them as weapons, but not as useful as the paperclip was going to be…and really? They still carried around paperclips? Clint supposed he shouldn’t complain since it worked in his favor. There were perks to being an ex-carnie; pick-pocketing and lock-picking were two of them.

He straightened the paperclip as best as he could then felt for the lock. It wasn’t easy doing it one handed and blindfolded, but Clint almost had the lock open. One more twist and…

There were heavy vibrations coming through the floor at a fast pace, and as much as he hated it, Clint stopped. He tucked the paperclip into his palm, closing his fingers around the thin wire just in time for the door to bang open with enough force to make the walls rattle. He tensed as multiple footsteps made their way inside, the hair on Clint’s neck standing up as he swiveled his head to try and track their location.

Whatever they were planning, Clint was ready.

Chapter Text

Three days, four hours, and roughly twenty-two minutes. That was how long it took for Stark to debug Hawkeye’s message. Steve knew the second they had an address, lights flashing briefly throughout the tower before J.A.R.V.I.S.’s calm voice projected through the speakers to inform them of Stark’s success and that they should gather at the Quinjet. Steve had never seen the team assemble so quickly, when he walked aboard the plane five minutes later, everyone was strapped in and ready for take-off.

The cabin was eerily quiet and jittery. Natasha was still gone, Dr. Banner was shifting through a first-aid kit and organizing supplies, and Thor was staring contemplatively at Mjolnir. Even Stark’s normal nervous rambling was gone, the man intently focusing on the controls in front of him.

“This is a rescue mission, nothing more,” Steve said firmly once the plane had taken off. “Our goal is to find Hawkeye and leave. If you haven’t, Stark, contact S.H.I.E.L.D. and tell them where we are going. We’ll let them deal with processing information and shutting down the compound.”

“Message is already sent, Cap,” Tony said. “I can’t land the Quinjet directly in front of the compound, but there’s spot ten minutes northwest of it that looks promising. There’s good coverage, and it’s unlikely they would find the Quinjet in time to try and capture it. Between Thor and myself we can carry you two non-fliers to the compound to save time.”

“You want me to come with you?” Bruce asked, pausing in his methodical sorting. “Do you really think that’s safe?”

“Of course it’s safe,” Stark replied confidently. “The Hulk has never hurt any of us, and he’ll be a great asset in helping us break through security. I bet he’ll be an overgrown mother hen when we find Barton.”

“Stark has a point,” Steve conceded. “If A.I.M. is too busy with the Hulk, they won’t have time to catch us escaping with Hawkeye in tow. But you need to be positive you can control the Hulk. We don’t know how badly Hawkeye is injured, and we’ll need you when we find him. If you think you can’t change back, we can go without you.”

“I think it’ll be okay,” Bruce said. He rubbed a hand against his temple, looking hesitant. “I can’t explain it, but I think he wants to find Hawkeye as much as the rest of us. He may be reluctant to let me take over, but I think he’ll listen.”

“Good,” Steve said. “Thor, I want you to stay with the Hulk and keep an eye on him. Take the east side of the building, Stark and I will take the west. We’ll keep in touch over the coms. Whoever finds him first, let the others know. Once we have him, we all will hurry back to the Quinjet.”

“E.T.A. is five minutes,” Stark interrupted. “Wrap up the motivational speech, Cap, we have work to do.”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Getting into the building turned out to be less work than expected. A.I.M. was unprepared for four angry Avengers, and the few guards protecting the entrance quickly fell at the Hulk’s hands. Once inside, they separated. Steve could hear Hulk’s angry roars and the crash of him tearing through hallways long after he lost sight of him.

It didn’t surprise Steve when alarms rang through the halls, nor when a dozen men came charging in their direction, guns held at the ready. Incapacitating the men was short work, Steve deflecting bullets and slinging his shield to take down enemies while Stark shot his laser blasts at the remaining enemies. They had incapacitated eleven of the men in less than two minutes, leaving one man conscious enough for them to interrogate. And while the information they gleaned from him was minimal, they found a general direction of where Hawkeye was kept.

They repeated the process as they steadily made their way toward the back of the compound, more and more A.I.M. agents appearing to try and stop them. They had taken down their sixth group, a couple of agents they had caught unaware while they argued about joining the fight, and Steve went about checked rooms for Hawkeye as Stark extracted information from the downed men.

“All of these rooms are empty,” Steve said, returning in time to see Stark knock the last man unconscious. “He’s not here.”

“No, but we’re close,” Stark replied. “Our red-haired snitch here said he’s at the end of this hallway and to the right, last door apparently.”

The whole building shook, dust falling from the ceiling to settle in Steve’s hair as a faint roar echoed through the halls.

“The Hulk and I are prepared to assist you,” Thor’s voice said over the coms. “We will, no doubt, be with you shortly.”

“Affirmative,” Steve replied, following close behind Stark as they ran to retrieve Hawkeye. “Make sure the Hulk doesn’t bring the building down on us while we’re still inside.”

“Verily, I shall do my best,” Thor replied before cutting out.

“This is the room,” Stark said, the visor on his helmet sliding up to reveal his concerned face. “Bastards locked the door, and only a key card and biometric scan will open it.”

Steve examined the large metal door, paying particular attention to the heavy locks bolting it shut. “You think you can get this open?” Steve asked.

“Takes more than that to keep me out,” Stark said. He raised his right hand, the distinctive whine of repulsors gearing up filled the air before a blast shot from his palm and the part of the door containing the lock disappeared in a flash of sparks.

After that, the door swung open easily, both of them starting to rush inside only to freeze in the doorway.

Hawkeye was shackled to a chair, his wrists bloody and his body a mottled mess of bruises and cuts. He was blindfolded, his bowed head immediately perking up when they entered and swiveling around to try and trace them.

They had no time to say anything before Hawkeye started talking, his voice tired and slurring, but cheeky as normal.

“What do you want me to talk about this time? You want me to go through Lord of the Rings scene-by-scene? Or maybe we can change it up a bit and talk about Dog Cops. Did you see the episode where Sargent Whiskers gets promoted?” he said. “If you haven’t, you may want to step out of the room, ‘cause there’ll be spoilers.”

“Hawkeye, we’re not A.I.M.,” Steve said. He forced his feet to move forward, distantly aware of Stark having a whispered conversation with Thor over the coms. The closer he got, the more agitated Hawkeye seemed, his hands clenched on the arms of the chair, his entire body taut as he spouted off nonsense. Steve assumed he didn’t hear him the first time, repeating calming words while carefully removing the cloth from over the other man’s eyes.

Hawkeye’s entire body froze at the contact, every muscle contracting and holding onto its painfully tight position. He faltered in his monologue as the bright light hit his eyes, blinking away the spots in his vision until the Avengers came into view.

Steve saw maybe a second of surprise cross the archer’s face before it was replaced with a grim smile, the dried blood on his face cracking as swollen skin stretched painfully. Hawkeye’s shoulders slumped as he glanced around Steve to Tony and back, a short bark of laughter escaping before he said, “And here I was thinking you wouldn’t come for me.”

Steve grimaced, guilt sinking in his stomach at the thought of how true that statement almost was. He wanted to say something reassuring, but Stark’s nervous laughter cut off whatever he was going to say. Stark moved closer, examining the locks holding Hawkeye in place.

“I see captivity hasn’t dampened your spirit, Feathers,” Stark said. “Did you have a relaxing vacation?”

Steve glared at Stark, the man’s insensitivity trying his patience on multiple occasions. He had half a mind to scold him for not using more tact when he realized that Hawkeye didn’t acknowledged the remark. Under normal circumstances, Steve would expect Hawkeye to retort and maybe pick an argument, but now he was fixated on Steve. Concentration was etched across the other man’s face, searching Steve for something.

“Hawkeye, are you okay?” Steve asked in concern.

Hawkeye tilted his head slightly, focusing intently. After a second, he gripped the chair tightly, pain lines sweeping across his forehead before he closed his eyes and muttered a quick, “Yeah, Steve. ‘M okay. A.I.M. just has a really sucky guest policy.”

Steve jolted as the chains binding Hawkeye clanked to the ground. Tony had managed to break the locks, tossing them carelessly to the floor while Hawkeye dropped his arms stiffly into his lap.

The way Hawkeye moved, stiff and uncertain as though he was testing himself, sent another pang of guilt through Steve. He had let this happen. If he realized his teammate was missing sooner, if he wasn’t so distracted, maybe they wouldn’t have tortured Buck-

Clint re-opened dull blue eyes, greasy blonde hair falling into his face as he waited for Steve to make a move. Steve felt himself unconsciously harden, and he watched Hawkeye shakily try to stand before falling heavily back onto the chair.

Hawkeye wasn’t Bucky.

Steve had failed Bucky, had let him slip between his fingers, and maybe once they found him again Steve could make things right. But Hawkeye was here right now and Steve could do for him what he couldn’t do for Bucky.

“Take it easy, Hawkeye,” Steve said, refocusing on the present. He moved forward to offer support, but Hawkeye waved him off, the man’s eyes squeezing shut and hands clenching, left arm cradled to his chest. “There’s no rush. We’ll keep you safe and-“

“Before you say anythin’, you oughta know A.I.M. did more than push me around a little,” Clint interrupted loudly. “They injected me with some kinda truth serum. It works by acting on impulses. You mention something, and if I don’t say what I’m thinkin’, my body sends a pain signal to promote free speech.” He paused. “You know, for an ‘advanced idea’ it’s not very effective.”

Hawkeye half-grinned, half-grimaced as he struggled again to his feet, swaying but upright. “Take me to S.H.I.E.L.D.; they can stitch me up and flush out whatever crap they put in me,” he said. “Just….don’t ask me any questions, okay? I’m not goin’ to answer them.”

Chapter Text

Bruce and the Other Guy shared a complicated working relationship. For the most part, whenever the Other Guy took control, Bruce’s consciousness of what was happening would slip away into a state most closely resembling sleep. When the Other Guy was finished, Bruce would return with a vague recollection of what had happened and feeling far from well rested.

It wasn’t a great feeling. Not knowing what damage he would cause while the Other Guy was in control always made Bruce nervous. But over time, either through necessity or constant exposure, Bruce became more or less comfortable with their arrangement.

Which is why Bruce’s sudden awareness while the Other Guy was still in control was so shocking.

It was a strange sensation. Bruce could see everything the Other Guy saw, could feel the anger and frustration coursing through him as he paced back and forth through a hallway, stopping occasionally to punch holes in the wall. Bruce could sense how desperately the Other Guy wanted to fight.

“Calm yourself, friend,” Thor said. He stood nearby, Mjolnir held tightly in his hand while he surveyed the hallways. “A.I.M. has all but abandoned the battle, but it would be ill advised to draw their attention.”

The Other Guy grunted, knocking another hole into the wall out of spite before settling down. Footsteps and the low murmur of voices to their left drew their attention, both of the Avengers preparing to attack, when the Iron Man armor stepped into view. Agent Barton followed close behind him with Captain Rogers bringing up the rear, and Bruce felt a wave of protectiveness sweep through the Other Guy as he rushed toward the group.

“-guy looked like a Grade-D horror movie villain. The scariest thing about him was that he thought he was actually intimidatin’,” Agent Barton was saying. He turned and caught sight of Thor and the Other Guy, a hesitant grin appearing on his face. “Hey guys. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

It was their first real glimpse of Agent Barton, and had Bruce been able to drop his jaw in surprise, he would have. The Other Guy hesitated, stomping angrily and slowly inching closer while sniffing the air. He may not have been able to fully comprehend the myriad of Agent Barton’s injuries that Bruce was already starting to categorize in terms of severity, but he knew something was wrong. A strong desire to smash the entire compound until only rubble was left burned through the Other Guy…and maybe a small part of that desire was from Bruce himself.

“Whoa, Big Guy,” Agent Barton said, picking up on the Other Guy’s distress. The Other Guy snarled, but Agent Barton ignored it and clapped the Hulk on the shoulder. “Relax, buddy, ‘s all right. Think you can get us out of here?”

“There is an exit nearby, down the next corridor,” Thor said. He paused, concerned eyes resting on Agent Barton’s face before saying sincerely, “It’s good to have you back, friend.”

Agent Barton nodded then turned his attention to Steve and asked, “Is Nat here?”

Captain Rogers shook his head, leading the group toward the exit. “She’s on a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission. Natasha hasn’t been back to the tower since before you-.” He paused. “Since she left on her solo mission.”

“Fury has her on radio silence,” Tony added. “No calls in or out, otherwise I bet she’d be here.”

“Understood,” Agent Barton said quietly. “More excitement for the rest of us then.”

They reached the door, the Other Guy punching it off the hinges before stepping into the warm air. The others followed close behind him, Captain Rogers taking the lead and assessing their situation.

“The Quinjet’s that way,” he said pointing. “Thor, Stark, if you can give myself and Hawkeye a ride, the Hulk can run back before we get Banner to return. It’ll take less time than bringing the Quinjet here, and if S.H.I.E.L.D. is anywhere in the area, it will give them a clear space to work.”

“That’s fine with me, Cap,” Tony said, “but Barton seems to have other ideas.”

They looked for the archer and found him already walking toward the location Steve had pointed out. He hobbled along, muttering to himself under his breath, and glancing around to make sure the area was clear. They hurriedly caught up to him, one of Tony’s metal hands resting carefully on his shoulder to stop him as his synthesized voice from behind the face-plate said, “That’s more than a ten-minute walk, Barton. I think it’s better for you to put pride aside and accept a ride.”

Agent Barton looked at Tony for a moment, brow furrowing in mild confusion before he shrugged, shucked off the other man’s hand, and continued walking. “’m fine,” he said.

“Hold on a second,” Captain Rogers said, stepping in front of the smaller man and making him stop. Agent Barton focused on him, a shiver running through his body that Bruce added to his list of symptoms as a possible fever. “It’s too far to walk in your condition, Hawkeye. It’s your choice whether you go with Thor or Stark, but you can’t walk all the way back.”

“The hell I can’t,” Agent Barton shot back. He glared at Captain Rogers, and made to move around him, but Thor blocked his path. Tony joined them on the other side as the Other Guy stood behind the archer, effectively boxing Agent Barton in. He huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders slumping as he said, “I’ve got a broken arm, sprained knee, cuts, bruises, and at the very least, a couple of fractured ribs. That’s on top of an electroshock truth serum, so I hate to admit this, but I’m holdin’ onto consciousness by a thread here. Any kinda pressure that comes from being lifted, and I can guarantee you that I will pass out. Walkin’ is my only option.”

“Maybe not,” Tony said. “A.I.M. hasn’t followed us out, and J.A.R.V.I.S.’s sensors show they are vacating the compound. Like Cap said, it’ll take longer, but I could retrieve the Quinjet, fly back, and pick everyone up. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“Do it,” Captain Rogers said. Iron Man jetted away without another word, and Steve turned to the remaining Avengers. “We’ll head for the trees as cover until Stark returns with the Quinjet. Hulk, we could really use Doctor Banner right now.”

The Other Guy growled, looking wistfully at the compound as he clenched his fists. Bruce found himself silently begging the Other Guy to give him control, telling the Other Guy that Agent Barton needed a doctor. Thor seemed to have a similar idea if the way he stood with the Hulk while Captain Rogers ushered Hawkeye toward the trees was any indication.

“I know you wish to continue the battle, Hulk, but for the archer’s sake, you must give Doctor Banner control,” Thor said. “Hawkeye is in ill condition, and though he claims to speak freely, I fear he tells us partial truths. He may try to reject Doctor Banner’s care, but perhaps the man’s medical knowledge will persuade Hawkeye to see reason.”

The Other Guy glanced toward the trees where Captain Rogers was awkwardly hovering near Hawkeye, listening to him and subtly standing ready to catch him if he fell. “Puny Banner help Cupid,” the Other Guy said, gruff concern in his voice.

The next thing Bruce knew, he was clutching at his pants to keep them from falling down. Thor was standing over him, one hand on Bruce’s shoulder to offer support while the Norse god asked whether he was okay.

Bruce nodded, one hand wearily covering his face as he took a moment to organize his thoughts. Thor was telling him about the rescue, gesturing to where Bruce already knew Agent Barton was standing, and Bruce hazarded a glance. His shoulders slumped, not because he didn’t want to help Agent Barton. He was exhausted and as much as he wanted to help, getting Hawkeye to voluntarily let him look him over was going to be a trial of patience.

“Are you ready, Doctor Banner?” Thor asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Bruce said, following after Thor. “On a scale of one to ten, how easy will it be to convince Agent Barton to let me examine him?”

Thor chuckled, smiling at Bruce. “It would be easier to tame bilgesnipe than convince the Hawk he requires assistance,” Thor said. “But I have faith in you. You are a good man and a steadfast friend, Doctor Banner.”

“That’s why I knew he had disappeared, right?” Bruce said sarcastically. He squared his shoulders, pulled up his pants with as much dignity as possible and made his way to Agent Barton and Captain Rogers.

“Hey, Bruce,” Agent Barton said when he got closer, “I see Tony hasn’t made good on his promise of super stretchy pants yet. You should tell him to get on top of that. We don’t want anyone seein’ you or the Hulk butt naked anytime soon.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the memo,” Bruce said with a small smile. He shifted feet nervously. The black and purple bruises seemed to stand out starkly on Hawkeye’s skin, lines of blood and dirt caked onto his body and hair, and pain lines more visible now than when Bruce was the Hulk. “So all of my supplies are in the Quinjet, but why don’t you tell me what hurts and we can go from there.”

“Don’ worry about it, Doc,” Agent Barton said. “I’ll have S.H.I.E.L.D. check me over when I get back.”

“This coming from the man who didn’t want to be carried because he would lose consciousness,” Bruce replied. “You can’t say you’re in that much pain and refuse medical assistance.”

“Would you believe me if I said I lied to save my pride?” Agent Barton asked with a weak smile, rubbing his good hand along the back of his neck.

“I’d believe you found a way to lie, but you weren’t lying earlier,” Bruce said. There was an awkward silence, Agent Barton’s jaw clenching, his open expression shutting down. “Please let me help you. You’re in pain, and I understand that you don’t trust me. At the very least let me give you a brief exam; Natasha would kill me if we let you go back without patching you up first.”

“I trust you, Doc,” Agent Barton said. He shrugged and said, “But you don’t have to do this. I’ve been through worse than this, an’ I have enough experience to know I can wait for S.H.I.E.L.D. medical to look at me.”

“Hawkeye, perhaps you ought to let Doctor Banner-“

“I don’t need any doctorin’, Cap,” Agent Barton interrupted Captain Rogers, shaking his head. “Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark are already here.”

He pointed toward the clearing, and the small group followed his gaze, watching as three S.H.I.E.L.D. jets and the Quinjet hovered in the air before touching down on the grass. The doors opened, half a dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents rushing into the compound while a few went toward Tony who was shouting orders from the Quinjet, his armor already packed away.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. will be too busy with cleanup to leave anytime soon,” Captain Rogers said. “If you insist on going to the base, we’ll take you there ourselves. Doctor Banner, make sure Hawkeye gets to the plane and that Tony is ready to fly. Thor and I will go and give the incoming agents a brief rundown.”

Bruce nodded, shepherding Agent Barton across the field and into the Quinjet where the younger man promptly settled himself in the furthest corner and passed out. Agent Barton’s respiration rate, while a little rapid, appeared to be within normal limits, so Bruce let him be. After all, there was little he could do for a patient that refused to cooperate.

“He looks terrible,” Bruce said quietly to Tony when the inventor rejoined them in the cabin. “I’m surprised he’s even able to move.”

“You know how stubborn Birdbrain is. Before we met up with Thor and you, we ran into a couple of A.I.M. henchmen and he took them out with a handful of pennies. He didn’t miss a step, it was like nothing happened to him,” Tony replied. He analyzed Bruce, running a critical eye over his baggy shorts and rumpled hair before throwing a bag at him and taking a seat, sprawling comfortably on the leather chairs. “You’re looking a little ruffled yourself, Bruce. Did Big Green not want to take a nap so soon?”

“He had a lot of anger to get rid of,” Bruce said. He pulled out his spare set of clothes, glad Tony had remembered where they were and pulled them on. With a sigh, he dropped onto the couch and added, “The Other Guy wanted to tear the whole place apart.”

“Maybe he should,” Tony said. His jaw was set angrily, hard in a way Bruce hadn’t seen since he stood toe-to-toe with Captain Rogers on the Helicarrier. “They’re never going to stop. There will always be another bad guy to fight.”

“You’re not suggesting we murder anybody, are you, Tony?” Bruce asked cautiously. “Because if we do that, we’re as bad as they are.”

“Keep your stretchy purple britches on, Bruce,” Tony said lightly, patting him on the shoulder and shooting him a charming grin. “All I’m saying is there has to be a better way. We can’t do this forever.”

Captain Rogers and Thor boarding the Quinjet interrupted whatever Bruce was planning to say. Tony gave him a wry grin before following Captain Rogers to the cockpit. Thor settled himself near Bruce, the two of them watching over the sleeping Agent Barton as the Quinjet rumbled to life and took off.

They stayed in companionable silence for much of the flight, Bruce absently tapping his fingers on his knee while he thought. He was confused about Agent Barton, how he said he trusted Bruce but refused to let Bruce examine him. Guilt for not being able to help and for avoiding the agent before his kidnapping gnawed at Bruce, and he found himself stuck between needing to atone for his behavior and not knowing how to do it.

“What troubles you, Doctor Banner?” Thor asked solemnly.

Bruce shook himself from his thoughts, letting his eyes drift from Agent Barton to Thor. The god chuckled lowly at the look of surprise on his face, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I have lived many years and fought many battles,” Thor said. “I know the look of a warrior struggling to make sense of their mind. You worry about the Hawk and carry guilt about his current state, I assume.”

“That obvious, huh?” Bruce said.

“My friend, we all carry guilt for his disappearance and for our behavior beforehand,” Thor said. “But it is better to learn from our mistakes than to dwell on the past.”

“Tony had you watch The Lion King, didn’t he?” Bruce asked jokingly.

Thor chuckled quietly. “I did enjoy the warthog and meerkat’s merry adventures,” he said, “But alas, that is a lesson learned by trial and error.”

“Stark said we’ll be landing soon,” Captain Rogers said quietly, easing into the back of the Quinjet. “We may want to rouse Hawkeye before we get to base."

Bruce stretched and stood up to join Captain Rogers. “Don’t shake him awake,” he said. “He’s an assassin, I doubt he’ll respond well to being touched.”

Captain Rogers nodded once, dropping his outstretched hand, and took a step back. “Hawkeye, wake up. We’re almost at S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said. When Agent Barton showed no signs of moving, Captain Rogers cleared his throat and shifted closer. He said louder, “Hawkeye! S.H.I.E.L.D. medical will be here soon, you need to wake up!”

“Barton!” Thor’s yelled, his voice echoing through the cabin. Turning to Bruce in concern, he asked, “What could cause Hawkeye’s continued slumber?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce replied honestly. He moved closer to Agent Barton to assess his condition. “I don’t think he’s the deep sleeper type. Hopefully it’s not a coma. Sleep deprivation and exhaustion could have him in a deep unconscious state; and I suppose, based on contusions to the head, some kind of hearing damage could have occurred-”

“Didn’t I tell you to wake him up?” Tony asked, strutting into view. “Rise and shine Legolas! I know these chairs are comfy, but you have a hot date with some S.H.I.E.L.D. medics. Up and at ‘em!”

Tony moved toward Agent Barton, the intent to shake him awake clear on his face.

“I wouldn’t do that, Tony,” Bruce said while moving to intercept him. “We don’t know how he’ll react.”

“What’s he going to do?” Tony said, shrugging off Bruce’s hands. “The man can barely walk.”

It happened so quickly, Bruce didn’t have time to shout out a warning. Tony’s hand landed on Agent Barton’s shoulder and the next thing Bruce knew, Tony’s arm was wrenched painfully behind his back by one of Agent Barton’s arms. The other was wrapped around Tony’s neck, tight enough to leave the engineer spluttering for breath.

As quickly as it happened, Agent Barton’s hazy, wild blue eyes sparked with recognition and he recoiled. He pushed Tony away from him, his hands hovering nearby as he anxiously glanced around the cabin.

“Shit! Tony, I’m so sorry! I-…I could have killed you,” Agent Barton said quickly. “I didn’t recognize you. I thought you were Jacques and-“

Agent Barton cut himself off with an obvious effort, knuckles white where they dug into his temples. “Rule number one when working with assassins,” Agent Barton grit out, “never surprise them when they’re sleeping.”

“No kidding,” Tony said, rubbing at his neck. “In the future, maybe we should pour water over you instead.”

“We’re at S.H.I.E.L.D., right?” Agent Barton asked. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. Bruce rushed forward to help, but Agent Barton shooed him away. The archer limped heavily toward the door, waving a hand at them over his shoulder. “Thanks for the ride, and sorry again for hurting you, Tony. I guess I’ll see you guys in a couple of weeks.”

“I don’t like this,” Tony said, glaring at the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics ushering Agent Barton into the building. “We’re just going to let him go with them?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Captain Rogers said in resignation. “It’s his decision.”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

“I think we should go get him.”

“Tony, it was Hawkeye’s decision to go with S.H.I.E.L.D.. I don’t like it either, but we have to respect his choices,” Steve said.

It wasn’t the first time they’d had that conversation. Steve would have had a headache from the number of times he had fought Stark about the issue if it weren’t for Erkskine’s serum that kept him from getting them. No matter how hard Steve fought to convince Stark that leaving Hawkeye with S.H.I.E.L.D. was for the best, even going so far as to attempt calling Natasha for confirmation, Stark was adamantly trying to prove him wrong.

“It’s been four days without word from him or S.H.I.E.L.D., Cap,” Stark said, frustration clear in his voice. “Doesn’t this whole situation feel off to you? The greatest minds this world has to offer are sitting here in Stark Tower, and S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn’t once asked for our help. What are they hiding?”

“I hate to say it, but Tony has a point,” Bruce said.

“I agree that S.H.I.E.L.D. should have asked for our help, but-“

“Why are you defending them?” Tony asked. “Don’t you want to know what they’re doing with him?”

Steve struggled not to roll his eyes, settling on glaring at Stark across the kitchen table where they were holding their latest debate. It was Steve's duty to know what went on with his team, and Stark was deliberately pushing Steve’s buttons when he knew that it was killing Steve to sit around and wait for S.H.I.E.L.D. to supply them with information.

“Captain Rogers is only doing what he feels is best,” Thor said.

Steve’s cellular phone buzzed, distracting him from the conversation, and when he pulled out the device, Natasha’s name flashed across the screen. He excused himself to answer her call in private, stepping into the next room while keeping an eye on the gathered men. “Natasha. I’m glad you got my message,” he said. “I didn’t know if they still had you on radio silence when I called the other day, but I knew somebody needed to talk to you.”

“What trouble did you boys get in while I’ve been busy?” she said, her voice sounding curt over the phone. “You never call me during missions.”

“Normally, no. But this was a special circumstance,” Steve replied. “While you were gone, the Avengers were deployed to stop A.I.M.. At some point in the scuffle, A.I.M. captured Hawkeye. By the time we realized he was gone and left to rescue him-“

“Is he alive?” Natasha interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“Is Barton alive?” she repeated.

“Yes, but-“

“Then I don’t know what you expect me to do,” she said. “Hawkeye is tough. He doesn’t need me.”

“They tortured him, Natasha,” Steve said empathetically. “You’re his friend, I thought you would want to know.”

“Barton has been tortured before,” Natasha said, voice cold and patience waning. “He’s been trained for it.”

“Natasha, this is different,” Steve said, rubbing his forehead. “A.I.M. had him for a while. He’s in bad shape, and they injected him with a new kind of truth serum. I’ve never seen anything like it, even Hill didn’t recognize it.”

“Where is Barton now?”

“He’s at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in the infirmary. Doctors are looking after him while they search for an antidote to the serum,” Steve said, hoping she would tell him it was the right thing to do.

“You let him go with S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

There was something odd about the way she said it that felt like she was chastising him. He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot and said, “He’s an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha. He demanded we take him to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s infirmary.”

There was a long silence. Steve was almost certain Natasha had hung up on him when her eerily calm voice said, “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not trying to find an antidote. If Clint has a newly synthesized truth serum in his blood, Clint won’t get an antidote until they’ve isolated, tested, and manufactured the serum for use.”

Steve froze. “Are you positive?”

“Remove Clint from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. Tell Stark and Bruce to start on a cure. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

There was a click and the phone went silent. Steve glanced at the screen before shoving the phone into his pocket and storming into the kitchen.

“What did Widow have to say?” Tony asked. “Does she want to weigh in on our debate?”

“Grab your gear,” Steve commanded. “You were right, Stark. According to Natasha, S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t trying to cure Hawkeye, they’re using him to harvest the truth serum. You can boast later, but for now, we need to get him out of there as quickly as possible.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tony said, setting down his coffee and determinedly moving to grab his suit. “It’s about time we took action.”

Chapter Text

Okay. Things looked, well…not exactly bad. To be honest, it was an improvement to A.I.M.’s hospitality, but Clint wasn’t ready to throw confetti and have a party yet.

The Avengers showing up and breaking him out of A.I.M. was a welcome surprise. It saved him the trouble of having to single-handedly fight through dozens of henchmen when he finally escaped, and of course there was the added bonus of knowing the plane waiting for him meant he wouldn’t have to walk back to civilization. The downside was that between Tony’s helmet, Thor’s dialect, and Bruce’s…Hulk-ness, the only person who he could easily understand without his hearing aids was Steve.

And yeah, he wouldn’t say that he had passed that test of lip-reading and context guessing with flying colors. Tony had definitely said something to him, which wasn’t surprising considering Tony Stark never shut up, and Clint had muttered his default response of “I’m fine,” hoping it fit with the conversation. Even if his responses weren’t perfect, Clint figured he could pass it off as a side effect of a concussion.

Which wouldn’t exactly be a lie.

Then the realization that they wanted Tony or Thor to fly Clint back to the Quinjet finally sunk in through Clint’s thick skull, and since there was no way in hell he was letting that happen, Clint caved a little. He let slip a few of his injuries, knowing that if he played up being hurt the Avengers would rush to comply. And as much as he hated showing weakness, Clint was thankful for their compassion, because he really didn't feel like passing out today.

On the other hand, it didn’t help Clint’s guilt that Bruce then felt obligated to attend to Clint’s injuries, even while Clint was certain Bruce was exhausted after being the Hulk. Maybe in a perfect world, Clint wouldn’t have minded having the doc fuss over him, but putting Bruce through that kind of stress, especially when Bruce wasn’t that fond of Clint in the first place, was something Clint wanted to avoid.

All in all, though, Clint was almost proud of himself. The Avengers didn’t seem to notice he couldn’t hear them, and in the Quinjet, he would find somewhere to sit where he wouldn’t have to talk with them. Clint was ready to pat himself on the back for navigating that obstacle, when he had to go and make an idiot of himself and fall asleep.

Sleep deprivation had hit him like a truck, snatching away consciousness the second he sat in the comfy seats of the Quinjet and allowed himself to feel an ounce of security. He dreamed about Jacques Duquesne, the dark, murderous glint of his former mentor’s eyes as he chased Clint, Jacques slashing at Clint with his famed sword. His brother Barney stood by watching blankly, Buck Chisholm shooting arrows at his heels, spurring him on even as the Swordsman gained on him.

Clint had tried climbing away from Jacques, but his perch on the platform of the high wire support disappeared beneath him, both of his legs breaking in the fall. He had scrambled back, dragging his legs, but Jacques was in front of him, thrusting his sword into Clint’s shoulder and drawing blood.

That was when Clint woke up, his mind too muddled to separate Tony shaking his shoulder from Jacques’s sword. Clint reacted, looping his arm around what he thought was Jacques and squeezing, hoping to knock the Swordsman out so Clint could run. Clint was surprised when he discovered it was Tony not Jacques caught in his choke-hold, and he quickly found himself shoving Tony.

He slipped. The Swordsman’s name fell from his lips before he clamped down on the impulse to talk, searing pain passing through his body at the action. His legs felt like lead. It was embarrassing how difficult it was to make them cooperate, the muscles going limp several time before Clint could lock his knees and stumble out of the Quinjet with a muttered excuse.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. medics swarmed him, easing him into a wheelchair that Clint was happy to accept. Clint told them the extent of his physical injuries as best as he could, then relaxed his body, letting himself pass out while they fussed over him.

He woke up alone in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s private medical rooms, eyes blinking quickly to adjust to the harsh light. It was amazing how much it looked like the holding cells on the Quinjet, all bare metal walls with a large reinforced window for observation. He was half propped up on the narrow bed, a heart monitor to his left and a small table on his right holding water and his purple behind-the-ear hearing aids.

He made to reach for his aides when the soft padding of restraints around his wrists made themselves known, both hands tied to the bed frame, although Clint noticed the left arm had been fitted with a brace and was attached looser. He dropped his head on the back of the bed and sighed.

“Are the restraints really necessary?” he asked, directing his scratchy voice toward the ceiling. “They’re required in certain situations, but I doubt ‘Clint-waking-up-in-medical’ has restraints written in the protocol.”

The door opened, Deputy Director Maria Hill walked purposefully toward Clint and released his right hand. She stepped back, crossed her arms and watched closely as Clint muttered his thanks and set about releasing his other hand. When he finally had his hearing aids in and adjusted, she said, “The only reason restraints aren’t part of your medical protocol, Agent Barton, is because Director Fury refuses to authorize it. The doctors have petitioned him to add it in multiple times.”

“You accidentally punch one doctor-“

“Five doctors and three nurses. Dr. Blakesly required stitches.”

“Well, Dr. Blakesly’s an ass,” Clint said, gently propping himself up into a better sitting position. “But I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about doctors and medical protocols.”

“Director Fury wants a debriefing with you to discuss what happened at A.I.M., including the information you obtained,” Hill said.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Clint replied. “Will he be bringing me a get-well card, too?”

“You were lucky, Agent Barton. The fracture on your arm wasn’t a full break; radiographs show it has mostly healed and should be back to normal within a week or two. You’ve got a couple of broken ribs, some internal bruising, yet on the bright side, most of your lacerations are superficial. A probable concussion, but believe it or not, A.I.M. appears to have taken care not to kill you. If that was everything, you would be back to active field duty in a few months,” Hill said.

“Except they don’t know how long I’ll have the truth serum in me,” Clint guessed.

“We have our best doctors and scientists examining samples taken from your blood, but they’re dealing with a new compound,” Hill said. “We’re unsure how long it will take to manufacture a reversing agent as A.I.M. destroyed all their information on the serum, so until we know how it reacts in the body, you won’t be allowed any pain medications.”

“Great,” Clint said sarcastically. “I was worried I’d be too comfortable.”

“Director Fury will meet with you after he finishes with representatives from the World Security Council,” Hill added smoothly. “They’ve taken an interest in what happened. In fact, while you were unconscious, their agents came in to check on your progress. They’ll be in the lab for the next thirty minutes, then they’ll meet you in here, so I’d recommend resting while you can.”

She left quickly, the door closing soundlessly behind her. Clint’s brow furrowed. His hands shook, fingernails digging into his palms, but he could handle the pain if it gave him the few minutes he needed to think without speaking.

The W.S.C. didn’t have an ounce of compassion for anyone, and especially not for someone who killed innocent people and helped Loki try and take over New York City. Who was forced to kill and help Loki while under mind control, Clint thought in a voice that sounded distinctly like Tasha’s. She would be proud of him if she knew her attempts at conditioning him to remember he was under mind control, that it wasn’t really his fault, were finally working.

Too bad it didn’t help with the guilt. It didn’t help with the nightmares or the accusing looks he still sometimes got from S.H.I.E.L.D. agents whose friends and family he had kil-

Nope. Don’t go there, Barton, you’ve got more important things to focus on, Clint thought. He shook his head, swinging first one leg then the other over the side of the bed, stopping briefly to catch his breath as the pain intensified. The W.S.C. wanted something. Hill said they were in his room, which meant he could say without a doubt that they had bugged it while he was unconscious.

And telling him to rest up? Clint was about 98% certain Hill didn’t believe in relaxing. He would bet his bow that telling him to rest was Hill’s subtle command to get his ass up and moving, most likely to the Director’s office.

He could make it to Director Fury’s office in thirty minutes. Hell, even with his injuries, he could make it there in ten minutes with extra time to look through all of Fury’s desk drawers if the fancy struck him.

“I hate waiting. Especially in medical,” Clint said, more for the W.S.C.’s sake than for his own. He stood up, one hand wrapping protectively around his ribs as he shuffled toward the bathroom.

Muttering to himself, he changed out of the standard issue hospital gown they had somehow wrangled him into and into the standard issue sweats that he knew they left behind for him to wear.

He didn’t hesitate at the door. Flipping up the hood of the sweatshirt, he walked as nonchalantly as he could toward Director Fury’s office. Clint thought he did a decent job of not drawing attention to himself, his hands signing a narration of his journey as best as they could in his sweatshirt pouch, twitching agitatedly when the inconspicuous hand-movements weren’t enough to appease the serum’s need for chatter.

Clint’s handprint gave him access to Director Fury’s room via the biometric scanner. The lights flipped on the moment he stepped inside, and Clint was quick to close the door behind him, scanning the sparsely furnished room before settling himself in the Director’s chair.

Clint contemplated putting his feet on the Director’s desk, but he was bold, not suicidal.

“That’s a smart decision,” a calm, dry voice said.

Clint slouched in the chair, smirking at Phil Coulson as he sat in the seat across from him. “I thought you were in Tahiti, Phil.”

“I am. It’s a magical place,” Phil said. “You should go someday.”

“Yeah. Maybe when I’m not plagued by honesty and hallucinations,” Clint said. “So what are you here to tell me? Because if you’re here to blame me for getting stabbed and killed by Loki before being resurrected, get in line.”

“That’s not necessary,” Phil said with a slight smile. “I’d like to offer you a little perspective. You play dumb, you let people underestimate you, but you’re a smart man, Clint. Why is the W.S.C. here?”

“Because it’s Taco Tuesday?”

“This is one of the few chances you have to really think, to speak freely instead of spouting off whatever thought comes to your mind first,” Phil said. “Utilize the opportunity, don’t waste it. Why are they here?”

“Maybe they want the truth serum?” Clint suggested, scratching at the back of his head. “It could be useful in interrogations?”

“You don’t really believe that’s the reason. They sent agents, not scientists,” Phil said. “And they were here before they knew about the serum, so the serum couldn’t be their sole purpose in coming. What else are you missing?”

“It’s not effective,” Clint said. “S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be interested in a truth serum that someone like me could easily manipulate, and if S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not interested, there’s no way in hell the W.S.C. is interested.”

“So answer the question, Clint,” Phil said. “Why is the World Security Council here?”

“They’re investigating S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Clint said, sitting up straighter. “The Council has wanted to get inside and snoop around since Director Fury took over, but Director Fury has kept them out of the way, even after Loki and Hydra. They’ve been waiting for an opportunity, any opportunity to get inside S.H.I.E.L.D., and my disappearance must have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Why you?”

“Because I was Loki’s henchman,” Clint said carefully. “I wasn’t there when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. They can fabricate some story that I’m working for the enemy, Fury’s blinded by some kind of personal attachment, and they demand access to me for an investigation. They use me to get agents inside of S.H.I.E.L.D., and now that they know about the truth serum, they’ll probably use that to get information too.”

“Not bad, Clint,” Phil said. “You understand that the Director will be forced to let the W.S.C. interrogate you. They’re going to question you about S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets, and you need to be prepared to divert the conversation away from that. Lie if necessary. It’ll be harder now that you can hear, but the W.S.C. does not need to be involved in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s affairs.

“And one other thing,” Phil added. He stood straightening his suit, and leaned closer. “After today, there will be no more hiding that you are deaf. The W.S.C. will find out, and once they know, they will make certain the whole base knows. You better prepare for how you want to handle it.”

Clint nodded, leaning back in the chair and swiveling slightly side to side. “I suppose I could try handling it with dignity and grace,” Clint said, a fake grin on his lips.

“You’ve never let being deaf be a disability, Clint,” Phil said. “Don’t let other people make you forget what you are capable of accomplishing.”

Chapter Text

Clint debated turning on the Director’s surveillance equipment when he heard the indistinct rumble of voices heading toward the office and two or three sets of footsteps stalling in front of the door for a quiet conversation. His hand hovered near the ‘secret button’ he wasn’t supposed to know turned on the miniature cameras and microphones stationed near the Director’s door, but one look at his “Phil-lucination” had him returning his hand to a safer position.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Phil said with a long-suffering sigh.

“Would you prefer ‘halluci-Coulson’?” Clint whispered, raising an eyebrow. “I have to call you something more than Phil or it gets confusing. Besides, aren’t you going to do a vanishing act?”

“I thought I would stick around for a bit,” Phil said. “Figured maybe I could lend you some emotional support.”

“So you’re going to be my Jiminy Cricket?” Clint asked.

“I would hope that by now you can determine right from wrong without help, Agent Barton,” Director Fury said.

The door snapped shut behind Director Fury as he strode into the room, and Clint found himself wondering how the Director managed to enter without Clint noticing. It must have been the concussion.

“When did you start hallucinating Agent Coulson?” Director Fury asked in his not-really-a-question voice.

Definitely the concussion.

“Sir, how did you-,” Clint paused, running a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes were drawn to bookshelf, scanning for the camera he was certain had to be sitting there. “Surveillance?”

“Phil Coulson is the only I man I know who could be a hallucination and still manage to give a lecture on morality,” Director Fury said, sounding amused.

“Fair point,” Clint agreed.

“What do you know, Agent Barton?” Director Fury asked. “And spare the theatrics, we’re short on time.”

“Well, I know that your bed-side manner is about as good as Hill’s,” Clint said. “And I’m guessing that the World Security Council wants to use me as an excuse to investigate S.H.I.E.L.D., am I right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And you’re going to let them.”

“The World Security Council has been trying to gain access to S.H.I.E.L.D. for over a year, waiting for a slip-up ever since we discovered we’d been infiltrated by HYDRA,” Director Fury said. “They’re making the argument that you’re a threat to world security, and if we refuse them access, they will push for a full investigation into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s affairs. If we cooperate, we restrict their access to include only you.”

“Which means I’m expected to keep them away from S.H.I.E.L.D. by any means necessary,” Clint said. “Awesome. How long are they keeping me in detention for?”

“You may be a pain in the ass, Agent Barton, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is not in the habit of losing good assets,” Director Fury said. “We’ve arranged a plan for you to be released from custody in four days. That’s long enough for the Council to perform a thorough risk assessment and interrogation, meaning they can’t demand further access to you or the base.”

“And how much access are you giving them to my records and files?” Clint asked.

“They’ve demanded your full history, personal files, mission reports, and the right to conduct any exams or interrogations they see fit. As all mission reports and details are classified and irrelevant in determining your current risk status, the W.S.C. won’t be getting their hands on them,” Director Fury stated. “The same goes for personal files, but in the spirit of compromise, we are forced to allow them to perform a complete physical, psych eval, and interrogation of you, all using W.S.C. approved personnel. Of course, all of this is on the condition you are willing to comply.”

“Sure,” Cint said. He shrugged, one hand rubbing casually over the back of his head as he asked, “When will the W.S.C. start their investigation?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Great,” Clint said unenthusiastically. He stretched, aborting the action halfway through when his sides cramped and spasmed. He muttered a soft “ow” and pressed his arms against the worst of it. “Any chance we can skip the physical and do everything else while I’m resting on one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s finest medical bed?”

“I sincerely doubt it, Agent Barton,” Director Fury said. “Although I’ve been told the detention cell chairs are as comfortable as the beds.”

“I think I told him that,” Phil added with a small smile. “Between you and Natasha, I’ve spent more than enough time on both.”

Clint’s expression lightened for a moment then turned serious. “What about me being-?”. He couldn’t say the word, instead tapping his index finger near his ear, arching it a small way, and then tapping it again near his mouth.

“They want a complete physical with W.S.C. sanctioned doctors,” Directory Fury said. “If there were anything S.H.I.E.L.D. could do, we would.”

“I figured,” Clint said. He shrugged, the fingers of his right hand digging into ribs.

“Do you have any hiding spots you can reach without being seen?” Director Fury asked. He moved toward Clint around the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out an almost full box of energy bars and an unopened water bottle. “Preferably one that could still be found if agents looked hard enough?”

“I can think of a couple,” Clint said, confusion creeping into his voice.

“Get to one of them and wait to be found,” Director Fury said. He pushed the box into Clint’s hands and dropped the water bottle on the desk. “Rest if you can. With all luck, we can keep the Council away from you until tomorrow.”

“I take it back, Director,” Clint said, pocketing the water bottle and rising slowly to his feet, treats in hand, “Your bedside manner is way better than Hill’s.”

Clint swore he heard Director Fury chuckle, a half-fond and half-exasperated smile on his face as the Director moved toward the door. He stopped long enough to say, “It’s good to have you back, Agent Barton,” before he and his long, majestic black coat swished out the door.

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Clint was surprised they didn’t find him sooner. The alcove hidden in the upper walkways of the Quinjet hanger was rarely used, but there were stairs that made them easily accessible. And while he was careful in making sure nobody saw him climb up the stairs, he made sure somebody had seen him in the nearby area earlier.

Trekking up the stairs to the alcove was perhaps the most difficult part of everything. By the time Clint reached the landing and shuffled his way into the little nook, sweat was beading on his forehead, his breath was more labored than it should have been, and his heart was pounding. Clint wouldn’t say he collapsed, but there was nothing graceful about the way he sprawled out on the floor, muttering tiredly, and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

He could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to eat a few energy bars and drink half the water, cushioning his head on his arms once he had set the food aside and quickly drifting off to sleep.

He slept well initially, catching maybe four hours before the nightmares caught up. After that, Clint had a hard time staying asleep. He would doze for a short while, shifting restlessly, and when he woke he would stretch and search for something to do in the small room. He often ended up talking to himself or one of the hallucinations, but a few times, he would poke his head outside the doorway curiously and see if anyone was looking for him.

After about the fifth round of napping and his sixth energy bar, Clint started to consider relocating to a more visible location. Maybe the cafeteria where he could get a hot cup of coffee and something more substantial than peanut butter energy bars. He had no idea how long he had been in the room, feeling sore and stiff where he was stretched out on the floor. Clint had the hood of the sweatshirt pulled over his head, staring at the cotton lining as he lazily half signed, half mumbled about all the foods he wanted to eat.

And coffee. Clint estimated he had spent an hour talking about coffee, and the second he had access to a machine, he was going to make a full pot and walk away with the container.

Scratch that, Clint decided, he hadn’t had coffee in over a month, he was going to take the whole machine.

“Check over there,” a voice said, the clank of boots on metal as someone walked toward his hiding spot.

Clint groaned, sitting up and scooting backward so his back rested against the wall. He propped his arms up on his legs, waited until the S.H.I.E.L.D. recruit came into sight and said with a grin, “I’m guessing you came looking for me?”

Clint took joy in the way the recruit jumped, one hand flying toward their holster before they realized it was Clint and radioed to the others.

For Clint, time passed quickly after they found him. The recruits shepherded him to a small debriefing room, waiting until he took a seat, before leaving and locking the door behind him. Minutes later, two agents from the World Security Council sauntered into the room. The man was tall with a defined jaw and neatly spiked hair, dressed in a black suit. The woman was an average height, hair pulled back into a pristine bun, and sharp bright green eyes that moved impatiently around the room. She was dressed in much the same way, but there was a subtle awkwardness about it that suggested she didn’t normally dress so formally. A field agent then.

“Agent Barton,” the man said, extending his hand to shake Clint’s, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Agent Denai, and this is my partner Agent Johnson. We’re here with the World Security Council.”

“I heard you were looking for me,” Clint said.

“It would have been a lot easier if you had stayed in medical like you should have,” Agent Johnson said rather grumpily.

“Sorry, I’m not a huge fan of hospitals,” Clint said, faking sincerity. “You spend as much time as I have in those beds and you would go a little stir crazy too.”

“I expect it’s difficult staying confined to one location after being imprisoned so long,” Agent Denai said.

Clint recognized his attempt of empathy as a way to seem more approachable, an attempt to mark himself as a potential ally. He shrugged noncommittally, hands pinching his legs to redivert the pain. So if Agent Denai was the good cop, that meant Agent Johnson-

“We are here, Agent Barton, because the W.S.C. is concerned you may be a threat to national security,” Agent Johnson said. “Considering your recent history with the demi-god Loki and your lack of presence when Hydra was exposed from S.H.I.E.L.D., I’m sure you can understand why. We would like to run a complete set of physical and psychological tests to determine your threat status to the intelligence community.”

“That doesn’t sound like a question,” Clint said.

“No,” Agent Johnson said. “At this point, you are in our custody until the Council has made a decision.”

“We can’t force you to comply, however, your cooperation will not only speed up the process, it will make it easier for everyone involved,” Agent Denai added.

“Not to mention, the World Security Council can make your time at S.H.I.E.L.D. very difficult if you obstruct our investigation,” Agent Johnson said.

“I’ve been told I’m naturally averse to authority and generally a pain in the ass,” Clint said, “but it’s not for a lack of trying to cooperate. I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Thank you, Agent Barton,” Agent Denai said. He sat down in the seat across from Clint, hands crossed in front of him. “I know you’ve already seen a doctor, but the World Security Council is nothing if not thorough. We’d like you to see one of our doctors as well as one of our psychiatrists so we can get an accurate reading on your mental and physical well-being. Once that’s done, we plan to discuss your time recent events and your time at S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Clint said. He gave an exaggerated yawn, heavily dropped his hands on the table, and slumped forward. “Any chance we can start all the fun question, answer things later today? I’m exhausted.”

“I would have thought you’d slept while you were hiding,” Agent Johnson said judgmentally.

“I did,” Clint replied, ignoring her tone. He smiled. “I haven’t had good sleep in over a month, though. Can’t blame a guy for wanting to spend time in his own bed.”

“The Council is on a very strict schedule, Agent Barton,” Agent Johnson said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“What Agent Johnson means to say is that the Council would like to take care of this immediately so we can all continue on with our business. S.H.I.E.L.D. will be given some access to you to provide medical care, but you will operate on our schedule,” Agent Denai said, giving his partner a stern look. “Furthermore, we will, unfortunately, require you to remain in one of the holding cells until we get this sorted out. However, in the spirit of cooperation, if there are any accommodations we can get you for between sessions, we are happy to provide them.”

“There is one thing,” Clint said. He pulled down the hood of his sweatshirt, exposing his hearing aids. “In the ‘spirit of cooperation’, is there any chance I can skip the hearing exam and get food instead? Considering I’m deaf, I think it’ll be a waste of all our time.”

Chapter Text

The physical exam and psychological evaluation went as well as could be expected. Clint decided the physical exam was more the W.S.C.’s way of checking to make sure that he wasn’t an enhanced human being than out of concern for his health.

He would have told them he was depressingly average himself if he had thought they would believe him.

And as far as the psychological evaluation went, Clint was surprised by how standard the questions were that the psychiatrist asked him. He expected it to be an expansion of the interrogation, but the psychiatrist who came in was a professional, her tests and questions consistent with the evals he had taken before. Hell, it was practically a carbon copy of the evals S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him after Loki, which was perfect because he knew all the answers they wanted to hear.

The actual interrogation went less well.

After the psych eval, the agents escorted him back into his holding cell, plopped a tray of cafeteria food onto the table, and told him to wait for their return.

“I’m starting to get really annoyed with being locked up all the time,” Clint said grumpily, poking at his food. Bland mashed potatoes and bland boiled chicken, served with what Clint expected was a bland banana and a bottle of water. And sure, Clint understood the concept of slowly introducing foods that weren’t peanut butter sandwiches back into his diet, but would it have killed them to give him pizza?

He ate the food anyway, eventually settling down on the cot where he lazily counted out loud to pass the time. Sure, it wasn’t the most exhilarating of activities, but it took less effort than singing and kept his mind from wandering into dangerous territory. When the door finally opened, Clint had long since passed the thousand mark and was reconsidering his decision not to sleep instead.

“Thank you for waiting, Agent Barton,” Agent Denai said. He walked into the room and sat down at the small holding cell table, his partner hovering protectively with a briefcase near the door. “If you’d like to join me at the table, we can begin the interview.”

Clint took his time getting up from the bed, purposefully letting his exhaustion show and hunching his shoulders forward. His keen eyes locked onto the pair of handcuffs Agent Denai held as he sat opposite the man. “Are you really going to handcuff me to the table?” Clint asked, his eyebrow raising in such disapproval that he knew Tasha would be proud.

“It’s part of the World Security Council’s safety protocol, I’m afraid,” Agent Denai said apologetically. “Until we have evidence proving you are not a threat, these will have to stay on during interviews.”

Clint saw Agent Johnson smile briefly, a triumphant expression breaking through her professionalism as the cuffs clicked into place around Clint’s wrists, the metal effectively bolting him to the table. Clint sighed, dropping his hands uselessly on the table. “And how long are these interviews going to last?” Clint asked.

“As long as the World Security Council deems necessary,” Agent Johnson answered. “Given the unusual circumstances of you being subjected to a truth serum while in A.I.M.’s custody, we plan to use that to our advantage to expedite the process.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. told us the serum works by increasing pain signals when the recipient is withholding information,” Agent Denai added. “Our R&D department has sent us an electrode-dependent program that can detect neural activity. It is specifically modified to detect pain pathways, and it will show changes in activity on a computer. With your permission, we would like to use this technology on you to monitor spikes in neural activity to determine whether you are being honest.”

“And if I don’t give you my permission?” Clint asked.

“We place the electrodes on you anyway,” Agent Johnson said. “Only we do it with more force.”

“Then by all means,” Clint said, giving the agents a lopsided smile, “you have my permission to stick the electron-thingies wherever you need to.”

Agent Johnson moved forward and placed the briefcase on the table, pulling out equipment and helping Agent Denai set everything up. Clint’s leg bounced, taking the few moments while they were distracted to let pain from the serum wash over his face as he thought. He knew it looked bad. They were wrong about the serum, which was an advantage. S.H.I.E.L.D. had somehow convinced them it was a lie-detector instead of just a way to keep him talking, but the electrodes would make it hard for him to stay quiet and the handcuffs would prevent him from hiding his hands and signing. Which meant he would have to talk fast and deny knowing anything important.

And not to blow his own horn, but Clint was pretty good at denial.

“Any chance you can warm up the gel before you stick those things on me?” Clint asked as Agent Johnson turned to face him.

“They’re room temperature,” she said blankly. She had several wireless electrodes in hand, two of which she deftly stuck to either side of his temple. Clint protested when she raised the back of his shirt to place a line of electrodes starting at the back of his neck down his spine, glaring at her when she stepped back in front of him.

“Maybe to your ice-cold hands they feel like room temperature, but not so for the guy with the weakened immune system,” Clint grumbled.

“We’d like to begin with a baseline series of tests,” Agent Denai said before his partner could reply. He tapped a couple of buttons on his computer and Clint felt a slight tingling sensation come from the electrodes as they turned on. “Tell us something that you know to be true.”

“I wish I were sleeping instead of being interrogated right now,” Clint said. “Or at least, I wish that I had pizza. Not the fancy kind of pizza either, you know, the ones with all the vegetables on them? I want a greasy pizza with cheese that hangs from the slice all the way to the floor, and you know you shouldn’t eat it because the indigestion is killer, but it tastes so damn good that-“

“That’s enough, Agent Barton, thank you,” Agent Denai interrupted, tapping a few more buttons on his screen. “Now, please lie to us.”

“I don’t think your investigation is a waste of time,” Clint said, immediately following it with the thought that they’d have had better luck getting information by digging through S.H.I.E.L.D.’s dumpsters. He didn’t try to fight the pain that followed. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes scrunching closed as his entire body went rigid, a white-hot pain behind his eyes. He had almost forgotten how much it hurt to let the pain happen without fighting it.

“There’s no need to be difficult, Agent Barton,” Agent Denai said when Clint had regained his focus. “Despite what you may think, we want to help you.”

Clint chuckled, prying his eyes open to stare at the other man. “No offense, Agent,” Clint said, “but I was born difficult.”

“Perhaps we better move onto the actual interview,” Agent Denai said, exchanging a brief look with his partner.

“Agent Barton, you are currently a part of the Avengers Initiative, correct?” Agent Johnson asked. She sat in the unoccupied chair across from him and stared at him.

“I’m on the roster, yes,” Clint replied.

“And what is your role on the team?”

“I shoot things,” Clint said. “And I keep an eye on everyone to make sure all the Avengers survive.”

“You shoot things?” Agent Johnson said critically.

“I’m kinda the world’s greatest marksman,” Clint stated with a small smile. “I don’t miss.”

“Considering what little we know about your disruptive behavior and S.H.I.E.L.D. history, I’m surprised they couldn’t find someone better for the job,” Agent Johnson said.

“Like I said,” Clint responded, “I’m the best.”

“And yet, during the Invasion of New York, you shot your commanding officer, killed or injured more than two dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and helped orchestrate the Helicarrier’s destruction,” Agent Johnson said, something close to anger flashing across her face. “How do you explain that?”

“Loki used his scepter to control me. He used magic to take away our free will, and we weren’t trained for that,” Clint said. He let his genuine sincerity slip into his voice as he stared at his hands. “I can’t remember all of it, but I never wanted to hurt anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D.. I fought against it…I must have because Director Fury is alive, and I could have killed him ...but Loki kept using the scepter on us-”

“How did he use the scepter?” Agent Denai asked.

“I don’t remember,” Clint said. He looked up at them, pushing away the feeling of cold metal and blue fire from his mind and saying, “All I know is that he didn’t care about any of us as long as he got what he wanted.”

“Why should we believe you?” Agent Johnson demanded. “Pretending to be under Loki’s control would be a good way for a Hydra agent to maintain their cover while also causing disorder inside S.H.I.E.L.D..”

“I’m not Hydra,” Clint said. “I went to fight with the Avengers after Natasha brought me back, I helped with clean-up, and if that’s not enough, your lie detector thing hasn’t changed while I’ve been talking. Am I right?”

Agent Denai nodded, tilting the screen slightly in Agent Johnson’s direction. “He’s telling the truth,” he said.

“Agent Barton,” Agent Johnson said slowly, seeming to change tactics, “what happened to Loki’s scepter after he was apprehended?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. returned the scepter Thor, and Thor returned the scepter to Asgard for safekeeping,” Clint said.

“Our records indicate otherwise,” Agent Johnson said. She pulled out a file from her briefcase, thumbing through a stack of paper. “Our sources indicate that Director Fury kept the scepter and was studying it to determine how it worked. Furthermore, we believe that Alexander Pierce had access to the scepter while acting as Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. during Director Fury’s absence, and that Mr. Pierce used his power to deliver the weapon into Hydra’s hands.”

“No, that’s impossible,” Clint said. He didn’t give himself any time to think about her statement, quickly adding, “Director Fury knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. had no hope of containing a weapon of its magnitude, and he handed it over to Thor for the Asgardians to protect. I saw it happen.”

“Let’s assume that is correct,” Agent Johnson said. “Director Fury was still experimenting with the Tessaract while it was in his control. Rumors suggest that he was using it to make weapons.”

“I don’t know if that is true,” Clint said.

“Surely, you’ve heard something,” Agent Denai said. “You’re a high-ranking agent, you must have some intelligence about what happens in S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons development.”

“I may have been here awhile, but they don’t let me sit in on the planning strategies and important meetings. I don’t have the clearance,” Clint lied smoothly. “I’m just a weapon to them. All I do is point and shoot when they tell me to.”

“So you’re saying you don’t know anything?” Agent Johnson said, frustration creeping into her voice.

“Sorry,” Clint said. “Although, come to think of it, it’s not the first time I’ve disappointed someone by not knowing anything.”

“Why don’t we move onto the next topic,” Agent Denai said, handing Agent Johnson another file.

Agent Johnson nodded stiffly before asking, “Where were you when Hydra attempted to overthrow S.H.I.E.L.D. internally?”

“On mission for Director Fury,” Clint said. “You can imagine my surprise when the mission was over and there was nobody there to transport me back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.”

“You didn’t think it was odd that you lost contact with S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Agent Denai asked.

“It happens surprisingly often,” Clint said with a small shrug. “An occupational hazard of working in the field.”

“And what did you do when you couldn’t contact S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“I scraped together enough money to travel back to headquarters in the most inconspicuous way possible,” Clint answered. “Took me over two weeks.”

“I’m sure you are aware that many of the sleeper Hydra agents were found to be members of the Strike teams,” Agent Johnson said.

“I still have a hard time believing it,” Clint said, shaking his head. “But if you are trying to imply that because I was on Strike Team Delta, I might be a sleeper agent, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Agent Barton, you have to admit that the idea isn’t implausible,” Agent Denai said gently.

“I already told you I’m not involved with Hydra,” Clint said. “I owe S.H.I.E.L.D. everything. I would never betray them.”

“Let’s talk about S.H.I.E.L.D. then,” Agent Johnson said. “Tell us everything about your involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D., your perceptions on what they have done, and your relationship with Director Fury.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Clint said. He saw the eagerness in their eyes as he leaned forward, and Clint readied himself to distract and redirect them from any useful information. “But I’m not sure how helpful I can be.”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Clint was exhausted. It turned out that a couple of hours sleep in the medical bay was not enough rest for him to forget the aches and pains of spending more than a month at A.I.M.. To make matters worse, it appeared the W.S.C. preferred sleep deprivation as their method of torture. In return for making their interrogation frustrating and unenlightening, the W.S.C. agents had decided that keeping Clint from resting would be the easiest way to make him slip up and talk.
Any time Clint let himself relax, his eyes drifting shut and mind hanging on the edge of sleep, the door would bang open and the Agents would burst in and handcuff him to the table. Clint wasn’t happy about the arrangement. And if the way Agent Johnson kept making the handcuffs tighter and tighter was any indication, neither were they.

Clint had lost track of time at some point. He hated the feeling of losing time almost more than the sleep loss, but he thought maybe it had been days since they started their evaluation of him. Whatever escape the Director promised, though, it didn’t seem to be coming.

However long it had been, Clint now found himself staring at the flat pillow on his uncomfortable cot, considering whether it was worth the effort of laying down as he zoned in and out of mindfulness. He was halfway to raising his foot onto the bed when the door opened.

Agent Johnson entered the room, alone for the first time since Clint had met the two W.S.C. agents. She looked agitated, taking long strides across the small room to secure the handcuffs on the table. With half a glance at him, she gestured to his normal chair and said, “Take a seat.”

“You sure you don’t want to wait for your partner,” Clint said, sluggishly moving to the table and placing his hands in the restraints. “Isn’t he the one who usually records these sessions.”

Agent Johnson tightened the handcuffs around his wrists, the cold metal digging into his skin. “This session is off the books,” she said, hovering over him.

“Sounds like a bad idea,” Clint said warily. “You sure you’ve thought that idea through?”

“You can cut the crap, Agent Barton. We can’t prove it, but we know that you have been withholding evidence from us,” Agent Johnson said. “You know more about S.H.I.E.L.D. than you have been letting on, and I doubt you will tell us any of it.”

“Then why are you here?” Clint demanded.

“Because I can’t do anything about the Council clearing you as a safety threat,” she said. “But I’ll be damned if I let you get away with what you did during the Battle of New York.”

“Who did you know?” Clint asked, his shoulders sagging. “Was it a relative? A friend?”

“You don’t get to kill people and walk away like nothing happened,” Agent Johnson said, ignoring his question. “They had lives and families, and you killed them. Director Fury spoke on your behalf, and the Council backed off, but you deserve to be punished for what you’ve done.”

“Who did you lose?” Clint asked.

“This isn’t about them, this is about you.”

“Family then,” Clint said, the realization sinking in. His heart was pumping fast, adrenaline running through his body as it recognized her as a threat “Then what do you want from me? Do you want me to go to jail? Do you want me to apologize? Because I hate to break it to you, but if you’re looking for someone to blame, you better go to Asgard and find Loki.”

“You killed them with your arrows and your bow!” Agent Johnson said.

“Because Loki made me.”

“You could have fought harder! You could have kept him from using you!”

“I couldn’t, alright! No matter how hard I fought, and begged, and futzing tried to free myself, he was too powerful!” Clint yelled. He took a deep breath, and met her stare. “I feel guilty about it, and nothing I do will stop that, but it wasn’t my fault. I don’t know whether you’re just looking for someone to blame or some kind of vengeance…to be honest, I don’t really care…all I know is that there is a better way.”

Agent Johnson moved to his side of the table, fists clenched so hard the knuckles were white, and before he could react, she punched him. Her fist caught him hard in the head and rocked the chair back on two legs before it slammed into the ground. He felt blood pooling in his mouth. His tongue hurt where he had bit it, his left arm throbbing from being jerked around. Clint leaned over the chair as far as his restraints would let him and spit on the floor.

“Do you feel justified now?” Clint asked, glaring at her. “Because I can tell you, of all the times I’ve hit someone or let them beat the shit out of me, not a single time did it make me feel any better.”

Agent Johnson returned his glare, her fist rising to hit him again when the door flew open and Tony walked into the room with Cap following behind him. The Avengers charging in must have been Fury’s escape plan, Clint decided as he tensed against a shock of pain. A part of him wondered if being hit was in Fury’s plan, too.

“If you touch him, I will sue you for everything you’re worth and make sure you never work for the government again,” Tony said, bristling as he moved to stand between Clint and Agent Johnson. “Sorry for the interruption, but we couldn’t help overhearing you harassing Agent Barton.”

“You are currently interfering with an interrogation,” Agent Johnson said. “When the World Security Council hears about this, there will be repercussions.“

“I’m sure there will be, especially after I send them the recording we took of you hitting an Avenger after chaining him to the table,” Tony said. “There’s a word for that, Steve, what’s it called again?”

“Assault,” Steve said, fixing Agent Johnson with his best ‘I’m Captain America’ stare.

Tony snapped his fingers and pointed at Steve. “Exactly. Assault,” Tony said. “And the last time I checked, that was illegal.”

Agent Johnson was seething, her hands clenching at her side.

“This is the part of the investigation where you hand over the keys and let me go,” Clint said, rattling the handcuffs for effect. “I suggest you cooperate.”

Agent Johnson dropped the keys on the table. She glared at Steve and Tony, ignoring Clint completely as she stalked out of the room, already pulling out her phone to try and regain control over the situation.

“I don’t think she likes you,” Clint said, watching the door close behind her. “She doesn’t like me either, but in her defense, that’s because we’ve been antagonizing each other for the last couple of days.”

Clint shrugged, the smile on his face dropping when he saw Steve and Tony looking at him seriously.

“You’re deaf?” Tony said, half astonished and half confused.

Clint’s fingers twitched toward the purple hearing aids nestled in his ears, jaw clenching as his heart thudded in his chest. “Yeah. About 80% loss in both ears,” Clint said tersely.

“How long?” Steve asked.

Clint thought he looked…disappointed? Angry? There was something in his expression that Clint couldn’t quite define, but Clint doubted it was absolute acceptance. “A couple of years. Before I started working with the Avengers,” Clint said. “You got a problem with that?”

“The only problem I have is that you’re wearing S.H.I.E.L.D. issued hearing aids. Those are S.H.I.E.L.D. issue, aren’t they?” Tony said. “God, they’re hideous. Give me a week, and I’ll make you better ones.”

“You should have told us,” Steve said, arms crossed over his chest. He stared down at Clint with a solemn expression. “We’re your team. We’re supposed to trust each other. What if something bad had happened because your hearing aids weren’t working and you couldn’t hear?”

Whatever relief Clint felt with Tony’s words evaporated, a tightness in his chest forming from the disapproving stare Steve was giving him.

“Really, Cap?” Tony said sharply. “The man is handcuffed to a chair. Again. Is this really the time for a ‘sharing-is-caring’ talk?”

Tony snatched up the keys and started uncuffing Clint from the chair, Steve slumping behind him.

“I don’t like it when my teammates keep secrets from me,” Steve said, shifting hesitantly. “Innocent people could be hurt, including one of us. Clint, I’m not saying-“

“I get it, Steve,” Clint interrupted. He shook off the handcuffs that Tony had unlocked, and pushed to his feet. “I’m a liability. I’m the only non-superpowered, non-genius on the team, and suddenly you find out that I’m deaf, but you know what? I’m damn good at my job, with or without my hearing. Being deaf isn’t a weakness…not to me.”

Clint left the room, his index and middle finger compulsively tapping against his thumb as he hobbled toward Director Fury’s office. Steve and Tony followed behind him, having a muted yet heated argument. Clint knew he was being petty, but at the moment, he didn’t care. Maybe he would apologize to Steve later. Maybe he wouldn’t. Clint pushed it from his mind as he knocked heavily on Director Fury’s door.

“Director Fury, I need to talk to you,” Clint said.

“We’re not going to go through this again, Feathers,” Tony said firmly. “The last time we let you go with S.H.I.E.L.D., they shoved you in a cage. You’re coming to the Tower where we can try to figure out what crap they put in you while Cap does everything he can to apologize. Not to mention, Natasha will kill us if we let you stay at S.H.I.E.L.D..”

“Fine, Tony, but not now,” Clint said. He knocked louder, cursing in Russian under his breath until the door opened.

Agents Denai and Johnson stood before him, Agent Denai looking defeated and Agent Johnson practically murderous. Clint couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. It was worth Agent Johnson shouldering roughly past him, worth the twinge of pain, and it was with satisfaction that he called after them, “It was a pleasure working with you.”

He saw Agent Johnson’s hands clench into fists, Agent Denai saying something to her before they rounded the corner. While Tony and Steve were distracted, Clint entered the Director’s office and locked the door behind him.

“Agent Barton,” Director Fury greeted him, “you’ll be happy to know that the World Security Council has come to a decision, and they have decided you are not a threat. Between their insufficient evidence and Agent Johnson’s misconduct, they have been forced to drop their investigation. Congratulations.”

Clint nodded once, the muscles in his jaw working as he sat in front of the Director, and fixed him with a stony expression. “Are we able to speak freely, sir?” Clint asked.

“You have something you would like to discuss?” Director Fury asked.

“You lied to me about the location of Loki’s scepter,” Clint stated. “And because of Alexander Pierce, it’s now in control of Hydra.”

“Yes,” Director Fury said. “How much does the World Security Council suspect?”

“They said they have sources confirming that the scepter stayed at S.H.I.E.L.D. and that it was handed over to Hydra,” Clint said. “It’s possible they just heard rumors and were taking a stab in the dark that I would give something away, but they sounded more confident than that.”

“You told them it was a lie,” Director Fury asked, a subtle demand in his tone that suggested there was only one possible answer.

“Of course,” Clint said, anger seeping into his voice. “I told them that you recognized it was a dangerous weapon, and that I saw you do what you should have done and handed it off to Thor for the Asgardians to keep it safe.”

“Did they believe you?”

“Probably not, but they don’t have any proof that S.H.I.E.L.D. kept the scepter,” Clint said, struggling to keep his voice down. “Jesus Christ, what were you thinking keeping that thing? It caused the deaths of over a hundred people, and you thought S.H.I.E.L.D. was prepared to control it? You thought we could weaponize it?”

“I thought I was doing what was best,” Director Fury stated. “New York was almost destroyed because of the Chitauri, the scepter could have been the advantage we needed to prepare for intergalactic warfare. In either scenario, the scepter would have been no safer in Asgard than on Earth.”

“With all due respect, Director, that is bullshit,” Clint said. “We were in way over our heads with the Tessaract, and you had to know that working with the scepter would be no different. And look what happened…Hydra has possession of it.” He paused, shaking his head, then added, “I don’t like it, but I can understand why you would have wanted to keep the scepter. It’s stupid, but I get it. What I don’t understand is why you lied to me.”

“Barton, you were unstable after the Battle of New York,” Director Fury said calmly. “If I had told you that S.H.I.E.L.D. was intending to keep the scepter, you would have put up a fight and might have tried to destroy it yourself. You would have done something reckless. Again, I thought I was doing what was best.”

“Yeah, well, you were wrong,” Clint said. He stood up, matching the Director’s penetrating gaze as he ran a hand over his face. “Who’s looking for it?”

“The Avengers with the help of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Good. I want all information available on what’s happened since you kept it after New York. And when we find it, that scepter goes straight back to Asgard for the Asgardians to watch over. If catch sight of it on-board, I will find a way to destroy it.”

“Not many agents would have the guts to speak to me the way you are.”

“Yeah, well, I think I’ve earned a few demands,” Clint replied.

“Agreed,” Director Fury said. “I expect updates.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, shoulders relaxing. He stood up, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he limped toward the door.

“Agent Barton,” Director Fury said, fixing him with a pointed look, “Good work.”

Clint nodded. He left, interrupting whatever heated conversation Tony and Steve were having, and all three of them made their way to the Quinjet. “It’s a bit excessive, isn’t it?” Clint asked. “A car would have worked just as well.”

“Sure, but the jet is quicker and more badass,” Tony said, opening the door and stepping inside. “Cap, come with me and help fly this plane. Barton, take a seat and try not to get hurt any more than you already are.”

The two men quickly made their way to the front of the plane while Clint settled in one of the plush chairs. He was surprised when he was joined a few seconds later by Thor and Bruce.

“It is good to have you back, friend!” Thor said happily. “Later than I suppose any of us hoped, yet it is much welcome.”

“Thanks, Thor,” Clint said sheepishly.

“We’ve got one of the medical suites set up for you,” Bruce said. “I have your most recent medical records for myself and Dr. Cho to look through when we get back, but we figured you would need fluids and basic care for at least a couple of days.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thanks,” Clint said. “I appreciate it.”

“Let us care for you at least until the A.I.M. serum is gone,” Bruce said. His eyes lingered briefly on Clint’s hearing aids, a curious and sad expression briefly crossing his face before he replaced it with a purely clinical look. “We should at least monitor your ears to make sure there isn’t any permanent damage.”

Clint laughed, shaking his head slightly. “Good luck with that doc, I’ve been missing my hearing for a couple of years now. It’s not coming back anytime soon.”

“You mean you’re deaf?” Bruce asked.

“Yep,” Clint said. He shifted uneasily, and before he could stop himself, he added, “Not for the first time either.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked.

“Hit my head when I was a kid,” Clint said, deliberately leaving out the fact that it was his father’s fist that did the hitting. “Lost my hearing for a long time, but it came back. Second time was a few years ago while working for S.H.I.E.L.D..”

“In Asgard, some of our greatest warriors are without a limb or a sense. Our blacksmiths are quite skilled in making replacements of the finest uru,” Thor said proudly. “Even Odin, my father and the king of Asgard, is without sight in one eye, and he is considered one of the most powerful warriors in all of the nine realms.”

“Really?” Clint asked.

“Verily,” Thor said. “Asgard would be proud to have a warrior such as yourself. Losing a part of your body in battle is considered a sign of great dedication, not something to be belittled.”

“Thanks, Thor,” Clint said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not everyone would agree, but it sounds nice.”

“Is that why you didn’t say anything sooner?” Bruce asked.

“What was I supposed to say?” Clint said. “’Hey guys, I know I’m the only normal person on the team, but guess what? I’m deaf too.’ That doesn’t sound like a fun conversation.”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Bruce said. “It doesn’t change anything. You’re still a capable assassin, but if there’s anything we can do to make it easier, let us know.”

Clint nodded, and they dropped the issue, chatting about recent events until the Quinjet landed.

“Hey, Tweety, when was the last time you ate decent food?” Tony asked as he came to the back of the Quinjet. “And I don’t count S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria mush as decent food.”

“Month and a half, give or take,” Clint said.

“That is unacceptable,” Tony said. “Thor, you and I are going to find some normal food for our birdie while they get him into his room. I’m thinking we fly over to the burger place on the corner, but I’m open to suggestions.”

They left, voices fading as they walked out of sight. After a brief discussion with Steve, Bruce also excused himself to go and make sure the medical suite was prepared. Left alone with Steve, Clint grit his teeth and started walking as quickly as he could toward the medical bay while Steve followed uncomfortably beside him. Clint opened his mouth to say something, maybe comment about what Tony would consider normal food, when Steve cut him off.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Steve said. “When I found out you were deaf. I shouldn’t have acted that way.”

“It’s okay,” Clint said. “Kind of a shock to find out your teammate is deaf.”

“Still, you’re a valuable member of the team and being deaf doesn’t change that. I shouldn’t have let my surprise make it seem like it does.”

“It’s not a big deal, Steve,” Clint reassured him. “I get that reaction more than you’d think.”

“Guys used to go deaf a lot during the war,” Steve said quietly. “Bombs went off too close and fellas would be grabbing their head, yelling questions at you even when you were right next to them.”

There was silence, and both stopped in front of the medical suite door. Steve seemed to remember something, the ghost of a smile on his face. “We learned some sign language to help communicate with them back then. I’m rusty, but maybe you could help me practice?” He blushed suddenly, a flash of panic crossing his face before he added, “That’s if you already know sign language. I don’t want to assume anything. If you don’t, maybe we could all learn. If you want to, I mean-“

Clint cut him off with a laugh, one hand supporting his ribs as he leaned against the wall for support. It was a good long while before he caught his breath. “Relax, Cap, I’d be glad to help you practice. But if we’re teaching everyone, I call dibs on Tasha and Bruce, and you can teach Thor and Tony.”

Steve laughed, opening the door to find Bruce watching them with confusion. “I think we better call in a professional for Tony.”

“Room’s all set up,” Bruce said, shuffling toward the two of them with a clipboard. “Steve, can I talk to you for a second? I’ll be back soon to get you all set up, Agent Barton. We’ll do a complete exam when Dr. Cho arrives, but in the meantime, you should drink some water to stay hydrated.”

Bruce and Steve left, their voices trailing off as they walked further away, and Clint looked around the room. It was much nicer than any medical room had the right to be. Hell, the bed looked like he would actually be able to get some decent sleep on it, but Clint felt uneasy. It took him a moment to realize it was because he was once again stuck in a room where he would be monitored and under observation.

The Avengers weren’t A.I.M. or the W.S.C., but they would want to keep an eye on him until the serum was gone and he was back in action. And Clint was futzing tired of not being allowed to be alone or go anywhere. He wanted to think, and because of the damn serum, he couldn’t think unless he could speak. Call him paranoid, but he didn’t want to say anything while knowing the Avengers could pop in at any time. He felt like his mind was clouded, everything cluttered together, and he needed to get everything straight if he was going to return to fighting shape, find Loki’s scepter, and explain to Tasha how the Avengers found out he was deaf before her.

Clint peered through the glass, taking note of Steve and Bruce’s position at the end of the hall. “JARVIS,” Clint said, “make sure the Avengers can’t track my position. If they ask where I am, you can tell them that I’m fine and will return to the suite when I’m damn well ready, okay?”

When Clint received an affirmative, he grabbed medical scissors from one of the nearby drawers, moved over to a large vent in the corner of the room, and pried the cover off the vent as silently as he could. He carelessly slid the dented metal into the middle of the room, pausing to take a breath as his body reminded him that he was still recovering.

It would be a pain in the ass crawling in the vents, and Clint wouldn’t get very far, which is why he planned on using it as a distraction. If they thought he was in the vents, they would focus their energy there. Bruce would probably run to find Tony and Steve would start by looking in his room. All Clint had to do was hide in the bathroom and wait for them to leave before hiding somewhere else in the building.

And considering his long streak of bad luck, Clint was surprised how perfectly it worked.

Chapter Text

The mission Director Fury had sent Natasha on had been tedious. International surveillance with a smattering of interrogation and intelligence gathering, something the Black Widow could have handled with both hands tied behind her back. The Director had been reluctant to give her the assignment in the first place, correctly believing that a lower level agent could handle the job. It took her one day to persuade Director Fury before he agreed to assign her the detail as a solo mission.

It took her almost a week to convince Directory Fury to extend that mission into a deep-cover operation that would expand the parameters of her mission and keep her in the field longer. He thought her skills would be put to better use back at S.H.I.E.L.D. or with the Avengers. Natasha argued that the likelihood of another global event happening in the next month was exceedingly low, and should something arise, she could easily abandon her current mission.

He reluctantly relented. She would have minimal contact with S.H.I.E.L.D. and no contact with the Avengers provided she returned to work with the Avengers after she wrapped up. All things considered, it was exactly what Natasha thought she needed.

She thought about the Avengers less, and focused on work. It became easier and easier to bury her emotions the longer she was in the field, and eventually, her guilt for leaving Clint behind without a word was dulled to a manageable level.

She felt in control of herself. She was whoever she wanted to be without anyone to call her bluff, and part of her liked the feeling. It was easy being the Black Widow. When Director Fury called and told her to finish the mission in three days because they needed her “advanced interrogation expertise”, there was no hesitation when she agreed. They needed someone rough to test the extent of an unknown truth serum they were trying to recreate? The Black Widow could be that person.

She finished a day early and spent her remaining time playing tourist. She wandered up and down winding roads, flashing bright smiles at the locals. Her phone was heavy in her pocket, a flashing green light telling her she had a voicemail from Steve whenever she opened it, but she ignored it. He could wait until she returned.

In retrospect, she would have listened to the voicemail sooner. When she finally called Steve back, she would have listened to him closer when he told her about Clint. Most of all, she wouldn’t have isolated the one person she would completely trust with her life.

Clint might be a dummy every now and then, but he had always been there for her. He had never cared about her past. She didn’t deserve his loyalty, had been a crappy friend of late, but she would make up for it.

Starting with having the other Avengers break Clint out of S.H.I.E.L.D. detainment.

Natasha didn’t bother with hanging around S.H.I.E.L.D., heading straight for Avenger’s tower instead. The building was quiet. The common room and hospital were empty, although all things considered, she shouldn’t have expected anyone to be there. Clint was notorious for his hatred of hospitals.

His room seemed like the next most likely place they would take him. She was halfway there when the sound of Steve and Tony quietly bickering reached her ear. She walked around the corner and found them hovering near the door to Clint’s room.

“What happened?” Natasha interrupted, joining the two of them. “Where is Clint?”

Tony turned around, a guilty smile on his face, and shrugged. “Nice to see you back, Agent Romanoff. Did you have a nice trip?”

“Where is Clint?” Natasha repeated stiffly.

“You mean your partner? The guy we rescued from A.I.M. and now S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Tony said. “You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Tony,” Natasha said. The corner of her mouth ticked up in a dangerous smile as she stepped closer.

“We don’t know where he is,” Steve interrupted. Ever the peacemaker, he stepped between her and Tony. “We got to S.H.I.E.L.D. and found out the World Security Council had detained Hawkeye for questioning. Director Fury told us where to find him and said the Council didn’t have the evidence to hold him, but S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t intervene.”

“Because it would be a shame if S.H.I.E.L.D. actually cared about their agents,” Tony muttered.

“The situation was complicated,” Steve amended, “but we got Hawkeye away from them. I swear, we only left him alone for a few minutes, and when we got back to the room, he was gone.”

“He ripped off the vent-cover, which someone will have to fix, by the way. We’ve checked the roof, his room, the range, all of medical, and even a few of the vents, but S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t mention that he would disappear if left unattended,” Tony said sulkily. “And somehow he convinced JARVIS to keep quiet about his location.”

“If Clint doesn’t want you to find him, you won’t,” Natasha said. “Agent Coulson once spent five days tracking him down after he escaped from medical. Clint had a broken leg and a concussion at the time, and the only reason Clint came out of hiding was because Coulson started a rumor that I was injured.”

“And that worked?”

“Coulson also said there would be dogs and free coffee in the cafeteria,” Natasha said. “It was hard for Clint to resist.”

“So what do we do?” Steve asked. His arms were crossed, brow furrowed in concern.

“Leave Clint alone. He’ll come out when he feels like it,” Natasha said. “In the meantime, get started on figuring out how to reverse the truth serum and find a way to gain access to the kidnappers. Maybe someone will know how it works.”

“And what are you going to do?” Tony asked.

“I’m going to find him,” Natasha stated. At their confused looks, she added, “I said you wouldn’t find him, I never said I couldn’t. There’s a difference.”

“You’ll bring him back to the medical bay?” Steve asked.

“Not a chance,” Natasha said, smirking. “Best I can promise is the common room, and only when he decides to go there himself.”

“Deal,” Tony said. “C’mon, Cap, we gotta find the big hitters and tell them they’re wasting their time. Veronica Mars is on the case.”

They left, Tony trying to explain to Steve who Veronica Mars was, and Natasha charted where she would start.

Clint wouldn’t have gone to his usual haunts. Anywhere the others could reliably expect to find him was out. Removing the vent cover was a nice touch, a good distraction that she would compliment him on later.

Downstairs then. Somewhere cluttered with lots of storage and hiding areas in case someone thought to look there and he needed to move around. Certain places, like the garage, were unlikely due to the large number of people coming and going. Other places were too small for him to choose. She guessed that left her with twelve possible places that fit the description, and eight that she could actually see him hiding in.

She found him in the sixth room she checked.

The boiler room turned ‘junk storage room’ was larger than Natasha thought it would be. There were rows of shelves stacked neatly with boxes labeled everything from ‘Stuff Dum-E Broke’ to ‘Pepper’s Nice Holiday Decorations’, and it all had a surprisingly tidy appearance. Natasha assumed it was all Pepper’s hard work that kept it that way.

Muttering from the far corner of the room drew her to something that looked like a larger water heater, and eventually she was able to make out a shadow that she assumed was Clint. She didn’t soften the sound of her footsteps, but somehow, he didn’t notice she was there until she was a few feet away from him.

“Hey Tasha!” Clint said, grinning brightly at her. “Glad you could join the party!”

“I don’t see how this is a party,” Natasha said. She took a seat across from him on a metal box and crossed her legs.

Clint laughed, glancing at the spot next to her, and shook his head. “Yeah, I can’t say Barney and I make the best company. Trust me when I say it could be a lot worse, though.”

“Are you okay, Clint?” Natasha asked. He wasn’t. Hallucinations aside, he looked like a stray dog that someone had finally taken pity on and brought inside out of the rain. The corner of the room he had wedged himself into was warm from the constantly running machinery, but he was shivering. Still, his answer would give her a good idea of his stability. A Clint Barton who denied being hurt was better off than a Clint Barton that admitted he was injured.

Clint placed his index finger thoughtfully on his lips, one eyebrow raising in question when he used that hand to point at her and said, “I could ask the same thing about you.”

“I’ve been on assignment with S.H.I.E.L.D.. It took longer than expected, but no unexpected casualties.”

He nodded, pulling both legs up and resting his arms casually on his knees. “Way to go, Romanoff. I’d expect nothing less from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best.”

“Good. Now answer my question.”

“I’m doing great. Never been more relaxed.”

“Then what are you doing down here?”

“Hiding,” Clint said with a smile. “I figured the roof would be too obvious and the range is out of the question until I can shoot again, but the basement seemed like equal parts inconspicuous and comfortable.”

Natasha barely contained her eye roll. “Why are you hiding, Clint?” Natasha rephrased. “Everyone was looking for you.”

“Give them a month, I’m sure they’ll figure out where I am eventually,” Clint said bitterly. His hands were clenched, eyes glaring daggers at the box she sat on.

“Clint-“

“No, Tasha. I know what you’re gonna say. You want to say something about how I’m a coward for hiding, go for it. But I have been watched constantly since A.I.M., and this is the first time I’ve been alone in more than a month,” Clint said. “I need this. I need to think because I wasn’t sure anybody was coming for me, and that was fine. Except they did come, and now they don’t want to leave me alone? Why do they suddenly care? And what’s more, I’m sick of how they look at me, okay?”

“How do they look at you?”

“Like I’m fragile. Like they feel guilty, and they don’t know what to do about it. Steve hovers and alternates between looking sad and angry. Tony rambles, and Thor keeps trying to make everything okay. I know Bruce doesn’t like to be alone with me. I think he’s afraid of me, but he feels obliged to doctor me. And you-“

Clint hesitated, one hand covering his face briefly before he dropped it to reveal a roguish grin. He laughed shortly, the sound familiar yet uncanny, and when he had regained his composure, he stared at her with narrowed eyes and said, “And I have no idea what I did to piss you off so futzing much.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I must’ve done something because you’ve been avoiding me. You don’t want to work with me, and you didn’t tell me you were shipping out for a solo mission,” Clint said. “I thought we were in this together, Tasha. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course.”

“Then why ask me to join the Avengers with you, if you don’t want me on the team? I don’t belong on the Avengers, Tasha. I want to be an Avenger, I work hard every day to make sure I don’t miss so I can be, but I don’t understand how they work,” Clint said. “I know what S.H.I.E.L.D. wants from me. They want an assassin. But I can’t figure out why the Avengers keep me around.”

“You’re an asset to this team, Clint. You try harder than most people without expecting anyone to notice; I’ll bet we’ve each owed you our lives at one point or another,” Natasha said. “You deserve to be an Avenger. Maybe more than everyone. And at some point, you’re going to have to accept that as an Avenger, you have people who care about you.”

Natasha expected a smart remark or a deflection, but none came. Clint had an odd look on his face, contemplative and nervous as he raised a hand to either side of his head and fiddled with his hearing aids. There was a moment where he hesitated, glaring at the ground while his fingers dug into the skin on the back of his neck. He took a deep breath, stormy blue eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Why were you pushin’ me away, Tasha? I keep gettin’ the feelin’ you don’t want me around, and I don’t know what to do about it. If you wanna cut ties, I-“ His voice caught, body taut and frozen in place. “I’d understand. I don’t wanna lose you, but I’ll do whatever you want.”

He watched her closely, waiting for her answer, and suddenly everything clicked into place. Clint had turned his hearing aids off. He had assumed she was a hallucination, but something she said made him think otherwise, and now he was testing her. She knew the question was important to him. The difference was that he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“I was afraid,” Natasha admitted. “After S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, I was convinced you knew too much about me. It made me uncomfortable, and I thought distancing myself would be for the best. I was wrong.”

Clint sighed, burying his face into his knees, his right hand tucked close to his chest. “Damn it, Nat,” Clint said, his voice muffled. “I wish I could hear what you said.”

They were quiet for a long time. Clint alternated between mumbling incoherently into his legs and rubbing small circles onto his chest while taking carefully measured breaths. Natasha, for her part, did her best to seem uninterested, attempting to give him the space he needed. She estimated twenty minutes passed before he raised his head to look at her, a crooked and tired smile on his face when he switched on his hearing aids.

“Do you want to talk about what just happened?” Natasha asked.

Clint shook his head. “No. I’d be happy to never talk about it.”

“Fine,” Natasha said. “But you have to tell me how long you’ve been deaf.”

Clint rubbed the back of his neck, thought for a minute, and said, “Couple of years. Around the time you went undercover as Stark’s assistant.”

“And how long have you been agonizing over the best way to tell me?”

“About the same,” Clint said. “Did you know?”

“I suspected something was off,” Natasha said. She stretched, legs hanging lazily off her perch. “I didn’t investigate, if that’s what you’re asking. I knew you would tell me either when you felt comfortable or if it became necessary. It never affected your job, so I didn’t think it was important.”

“Thanks, Nat,” Clint said. He unfolded, legs straightened so they almost touched her, his arms still tucked closed to him, but all the tension gone from him.

“When you’re ready, come up to the common room. You can hide in your room and deal with everyone bursting in to make sure you’re alive or sleep in the common room tonight. Your choice,” Natasha said. “If you drink water and take your medication without complaint, I’ll convince Bruce to hold off on the medical exam until tomorrow.”

“Are you bribing me, Romanoff?”

“I could threaten you, if you prefer.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. said no meds until they figure out how they’ll interact with the serum.”

“I’ll run it by Bruce.”

“Then I’ll take the bribe.”

“Smart choice, Barton.”

Natasha nudged his foot out of the way and stood. “You okay?”

Clint smirked, a knowing look on his face. “Yeah. I’m great.”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Natasha nodded and left. Clint would be fine. And if he wasn’t he would get there.

She made her way back up to the common room where the other Avengers were waiting for her. Bruce had taken a seat on the smaller couch, intently reading a file that Natasha assumed was Clint’s most current medical record. Steve and Thor were talking quietly near the large windows looking out onto the city while Tony prepared himself a drink.

“Did you find Clint?” Steve asked, watching her hopefully.

Natasha gave him a withering look. “Would I be here if I didn’t find him?” she said. She grabbed two water bottles from the small refrigerator near the bar and plopping them on the coffee table in front of the larger sofa. She sat in one corner, booted up Tony’s vast movie supply, and loaded Blade Runner onto the vast television screen.

“Is he alright?” Bruce asked. “Medically speaking. Do we need to be concerned?”

“He’s fine,” Natasha said. “S.H.I.E.L.D. refused to give him any medications because of the serum, but see if there’s anything he can take. Preferably something for pain. Put them on the table, and I’ll make sure he takes it. Meds only tonight, Doc. You’ll have to save the exam for tomorrow.”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll check what we have,” Bruce said, leaving the room.

“Why did Barton run?” Thor asked, genuine concern on his face. “We are his friends, are we not? It is our wish to help him.”

“Clint has issues with hospitals,” Natasha said, the ‘among other things’ thought. “Don’t ask.”

“We won’t,” Steve said, staring at Tony to emphasize the point. “Should we wait here for him?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Natasha said. “Give him the rest of the night off, and if you can’t do that, give us an hour.”

“Technically, this is the common room. You don’t have the right to kick us out,” Tony said. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him in challenge. Tony tried valiantly to stare her down and failed. He turned to Bruce who had re-entered the room and changed tactics. “But Bruce and I were leaving anyway to do science stuff with the truth serum.”

He grabbed Bruce, giving the other man just enough time to place a bottle on the table and tell her how many tablets to give Clint, before dragging him toward the elevator where they both went inside and disappeared to the labs. Steve and Thor awkwardly excused themselves, and Natasha was finally alone. Eight minutes later, and right on time, Clint shuffled into the room.

Barefoot, wearing his purple sweatpants with the broken drawstring, and a loose white tee-shirt with a purple target on the front, Clint dropped onto the opposite corner of the couch and let out a groan.

“What hurts?” Natasha asked, handing him a bottle of water and counting out two tablets of Ibuprofen.

“Everything, Nat,” Clint whined. “I think my headache has a headache.”

Natasha handed him a couple of pills, waiting until he swallowed them before asking, “Do you want a head massage to take your mind off it?”

“No.”

“But do you need it?”

Clint sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably.”

Natasha made herself comfortable, spread a blanket over her lap, and turned on the movie before she patted the top of her knee invitingly. Clint hesitated, slowly easing himself down so the side of his face was resting on her thigh, eyes facing the television and tension radiating through his body.

He hated this. Unromantic physical contact, even with Natasha, always tended to make him squirrely. She lightly ran her fingers through his hair, placing gentle pressure on his temples and scratching lightly at his scalp. He stiffened, only practice and training keeping him from flinching, and it was several minutes before he fully relaxed.

“Thanks, Nat,” he said reluctantly, rubbing at right ear. “You could make a living out of this if the whole ‘spy/Avengers’ thing doesn’t work out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Reminds me of that time in Ukraine.”

“I wasn’t massaging your head. I was trying to stop it from bleeding after you thought falling off a roof was a good idea.”

“Same thing.”

Clint rubbed at his ear again, and Natasha paused.

“Do you want to take your hearing aids out? I turned on the subtitles.”

“And miss the beautiful timbre of Harrison Ford’s voice in the best movie ever created? I think not.”

“Clint.”

“I couldn’t hear anything for a month, Tasha,” Clint whispered, his voice gruff. “I’ll take discomfort over silence.”

“Okay,” Natasha said. She left it alone, and resumed massaging his head. The low sound of the movie washed over them, overlaid by Clint’s own commentary, until his mumbling turned into quiet snores.

The movie wasn’t even halfway finished, but Natasha let him sleep. She shooed away the other Avengers when they came in, threatening them with glares when they were too loud. When the movie ended, she started another.

She wasn’t moving anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Natasha woke up surprisingly warm and comfortable for having spent the night sleeping half-upright on the common room couch. She opened her eyes slowly, careful not to disturb Clint as she took in her surroundings. The windows were completely dark despite the clock on the wall saying it was well past eight in the morning. She could hear the clink of cutlery and shuffle of pans in the adjoining kitchen, occasionally interspersed by the murmur of soft voices she identified as belonging to Steve and Bruce.

“I hope they made waffles.”

Natasha smirked, stretching her arms over her head, before dropping one hand to lazily ruffle Clint’s shaggy hair. “Maybe if you’re a good boy, they’ll make some for you.”

“Woof,” Clint barked. He rolled onto his back, the small smile on his face covered by a wince as he curled inward on himself as much as he could.

“Hurts?”

“Stiff,” Clint replied. He pushed himself upright with a groan, slumping next to her with his bad arm held close to his chest. His hair stuck up in random spikes, and his clothes were rumpled. He was examining the room slowly, trying to get his bearings. After a minute, he yawned, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his back. “I wouldn’t be so stiff if you would’ve let me sleep in my own bed.”

“We both slept on the couch last night,” Natasha reminded him. “Not only am I older than you, I slept sitting up. You don’t see me complaining.”

“You’re older technically. But you have the Russian equivalent of the super soldier serum so that’s not a fair comparison.”

“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it,” Natasha said. She pushed him gently, watching him collapse dramatically sideways, his face smooshed into pillows.

“You wound me,” he said flatly.

“You’ll heal. When you’re done moping, join us for breakfast.”

Natasha stood, moved around the couch, and headed toward the kitchen. As expected, Bruce and Steve were both busy cooking. Bruce was setting a tray of muffins on top of the stove while Steve took a drink from his steaming cup of coffee, a metal bowl half-filled with batter sat in front of him. Pancakes were frying on a griddle to his right, a mountain of them already stacked on a plate.

Natasha said hello and grabbed two plates and silverware before sitting at the counter, snagging the stack of pancakes and pulling it closer to herself. While she was filling her plate, Clint snuck into the room. He stood near her, shoulders drooping in an ‘I’m-uncomfortable-but-don’t-want-anyone-to-know’ way. His hands were twitching at his side...signing, she realized.

She piled the second plate with pancakes, and pushed it in front of the seat next to her. “Eat up,” she told him.

Clint sat slowly, staring at the plate. “It’s never waffles,” he muttered.

“Still delicious,” Natasha said, taking a bite.

Clint stalled, poking at the pancakes on his plate with a fork, sneaking glances at Steve as though waiting for him to take the food away. Bruce solved the issue by placing a muffin on each of their plates, followed by two cups that he immediately filled with coffee.

“Steve and I thought the team could use a good breakfast,” Bruce said. “Considering Tony’s idea of a good breakfast is coffee, and Thor’s still learning how to use the appliances, Steve and I took the initiative. I hope blueberry’s okay.”

Natasha nodded, monitoring Clint from the corner of her eye. He tensed briefly, an imperceptible thing the other’s wouldn’t notice, before turning a broad smile toward Bruce.

“I gotta say, I like Tony’s idea of breakfast,” Clint said. He took a large bite of the muffin, his eyes widening comically. “But these are great! I think I’m starting to like your idea of breakfast, too.”

“Help yourselves to as much food as you like,” Steve added. “I can always make more.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Clint said. He drowned his pancakes in maple syrup, and took a bite. A genuine smile spread over his face after he swallowed, and he nudged Natasha with his elbow. “You remember the last time we had pancakes, Nat?”

“Latvia?”

“Nah, that was before. Norway. At that awful motel,” Clint answered. Recognition crossed her face, and Clint took another bite before explaining to Steve and Bruce. “We were laying low at a dumpy motel in Oslo during a mission, and they had a breakfast buffet for guests. I thought pancakes would be the safest bet, so I brought some back to the room for Nat and I, but they were terrible.”

“They tasted like dry milk mixed with gravel,” Natasha said.

“Natasha threw one against the table and it bounced,” Clint said reverently. “It was great.”

“Yours are a lot better,” Natasha told Steve.

“It’s clearly a high bar to beat,” Steve deadpanned.

“You’d be surprised,” Clint said around a mouthful of pancakes. “Agent Hill makes the fluffiest pancakes this side of the country. I think it’s her grandpa’s recipe. Although, if we’re comparing S.H.I.E.L.D. employees and their cooking ability, Director Fury is near the top. I think it’s his stress reliever. The man makes a mean goulash.”

Clint looked up from his food to find Bruce and Steve staring at him. Natasha shrugged when Clint gave her a questioning look.

“What are you staring at?” Clint asked.

“It’s just-.” Bruce shuffled behind the counter. “I’m can’t remember a time when you’ve talked this much.”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I? Not with this stupid not-really-a-truth-serum in me.”

There was a moment of silence, Steve busying himself with stacking more pancakes on his plate, and Bruce taking an extra long drink of coffee. They were stalling. Both men were uncomfortable, hoping Clint would say more, but Natasha’s partner showed no signs of breaking the tension. He was focused on his food with a single-mindedness that Natasha recognized from their sniper missions.

“I didn’t notice a difference,” Natasha interjected. “If anything, I think you’re quieter than usual. Which is a huge shock considering most days you never shut up.”

“You try talking for a week straight, see how well your voice holds up,” Clint said. “Give me a few days to recuperate, and maybe I’ll regale you with the same concert I gave HYDRA.”

“I could only be so lucky.”

“Did S.H.I.E.L.D. give you their records on my bloodwork?” Clint asked Bruce. “They took some when I first got there.”

“They weren’t able to do much with it,” Bruce said. “They gave me whatever research they had, but the World Security Council halted their investigation while they were interrogating you.”

Clint sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sounds about right.”

“If you want, we can draw more blood this afternoon, maybe start running tests,” Bruce suggested. “And anything you can tell us would be useful.”

“Sure. It was clear and colorless. They said something about it lasting longer and acting differently. I don’t know most of what they said for obvious reasons,” Clint said. A look of confusion crossed his face. “It was weird because I didn’t feel any different. Natasha can back me up on this, but most truth serums affect your body, make you feel drunk or concussed. I didn’t feel anything until I didn’t say what I was thinking and then it was like my skull was being split apart.”

“That’s a good start,” Bruce said. He grabbed a scratch piece of paper and started jotting information down. “Think you can meet Tony and myself down in the labs in fifteen minutes?

“Okay.” Clint’s eyes drifted over to the far side of the room, a frown playing at the corner of his mouth. Before Natasha could call him on it, he was smiling again, an uncanny ease about him. His eyes studiously avoided that section of wall. “Keep in mind that I’m not a pin cushion, Doc. And if Tony even thinks about coming at me with some kinda experimental brain wave thing, I’m out of there.”

“Deal.”

“While you fellas do that, I’ll head to S.H.I.E.L.D. and gather some more information,” Steve said.

“I’ll join you,” Natasha said. “What are you planning to do?”

“I thought I’d talk to Director Fury first,” Steve said. “He seemed more receptive to helping us, maybe he can point us in the right direction.”

“No. You want to work your way up the chain of command, start with doctors and scientists. Get them to talk before someone orders them to be silent.”

While she and Steve talked tactics, she caught Clint leave out of the corner of her eye. He said something to Bruce, nearly dropped his plate as he handed it over, and walked away with his hands shoved into his pockets.

If there were suddenly two fewer muffins in the tin than there were moments before, Natasha wasn’t going to point it out to Bruce and Steve.

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Clint closed the door to his apartment, and let his head thump against the wood. He stood there briefly before making his way into the kitchen, and with a small sigh, he pulled the somewhat flattened muffins from his pockets and plopped them on the counter. He didn’t actually remember taking them. It must have been a subconscious choice to squirrel them away, a habit he tried to break, but that always returned when he was most stressed.

Because Natasha was leaving again. Maybe it was only to visit S.H.I.E.L.D. to get information, and she would probably be back later, but it was small things like that which started the last time she seemed to cut ties with him. He hadn’t noticed the signs then, but he was noticing them now. And maybe she was trying to leave again.

“Get a hold of yourself, Barton,” he told himself firmly. “You’re just imagining things. Everything was normal last night. You’re being paranoid.”

“I don’t know about that,” Barney’s voice said. He flickered into view behind the counter, staring down at the muffins in disgust. “She was ignoring you the second half of breakfast. Didn’t care to stick around with your sorry ass either.”

“Natasha’s of more use going to S.H.I.E.L.D. with Steve than staying here,” Clint said. “Information gathering is her specialty.”

“You want to try saying that like you mean it?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“You weren’t talking to me at breakfast. You’re talking to me now,” Barney clarified. “Must be because subconsciously you trust me more than anyone to give you an honest opinion.”

“I don’t trust you. You tried to kill me.”

“More than once, I think. Yet we’ve always managed to work it out.” Barney grinned. “Let me guess, you were expecting Tasha for this therapy session? Except she’s not around, too busy running around with more interesting people, even as a hallucination. Which is the problem, right?”

“Natasha can do whatever she wants.”

“That’s true. Because no matter what she does, you’ll be waiting for her to return, hoping for a scrap of attention. For someone who’s so damn independent, you can’t stand being alone.”

“Shut up, Barney,” Clint growled.

“I’m not saying anything you didn’t already think. I’m in your head, little brother,” Barney said. “Hey, do you think maybe Natasha’s decided she’s repaid that debt she thinks she owes you? She’s probably ready to get rid of you, you spineless, insecure, piece of-“

“Shut up!”

Clint turned tail and ran across the room, making a beeline for the bathroom, and slamming the door shut behind him. He turned the sink faucet on and let the cold water run over his shaky hands. He splashed it on his face and leaned on the counter, breathing heavily.

“They’re gonna lock you up in a padded cell, you keep talking to your hallucinations,” Clint told himself, resignation heavy in his voice.

“That might not be a bad idea.”

“What do I need to do to make you leave?”

“Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you.” Barney appeared behind him, leaning against the wall with dark eyes and a surprising amount of concern on his face. “I guess I’m here to remind you not to get too close to people. Don’t give them that power, Clint, ‘cause it’s only a matter of time before somebody uses it to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been smart enough to take that advice.”

“The Avengers will hurt you.”

“Probably.”

“Natasha will hurt you,” Barney emphasized. “She’s hurt you before, she’ll do it again.”

“Yeah.” Clint rubbed the back of his neck. “But it’s worth it.”

Clint left his apartment, thankful Barney disappeared when he closed the door, and made his way to medical. Bruce and Tony were waiting for him. They stood together in front of a monitor containing notes from A.I.M., pouring over whatever information S.H.I.E.L.D. had managed to recover. Clint faked a smile, managing a nonchalance and postured relaxation he didn’t feel.

“You’re late,” Bruce said, the words more of an observation than a judgement. He glanced up and did a brief double take. “I thought you were going to change out of your pajamas?”

“Better late than never.” Clint shrugged. “And it’s not like I’m going anywhere so why bother?”

Bruce nodded, turning back to the monitors. “We’ve been looking over the information from A.I.M., but it seems they weren’t all that fond of documentation. Or at least documenting their research on computers.”

“Which is probably the first intelligent thing A.I.M. has done, but it doesn’t help us,” Tony added. He took a long drink of coffee, sighing heavily. “Bruce filled me in. Are you sure you’re not up for the experimental brain scans?”

“Depends. How much do you feel like taking an elbow to the gut?”

“Is this why none of the doctors want to work with you?”

“Doctors love working with me, Stark. I cut their workload in half by not sticking around.”

“Oh god, what did I agree to?” Bruce whispered.

Clint’s chest tightened uncomfortably, before he noticed the glimmer of amusement in Bruce’s eyes. Barton, you dummy, it was a joke. There was no reason to take anything personally, and with that thought, Clint relaxed a little.

“Come on, Bruce, I won’t be that bad.” Clint held out his arm, a mischievous look on his face. “Go ahead and draw some blood, I promise to be on my best behavior.”

Bruce had a doubtful look on his face, but Clint let them take as much blood as they needed. He answered their questions, even letting Bruce poke and prod at him with minimal fuss. He drew the line at imaging. Logically, he knew the bloodwork might not be enough, that they would need to see how his brain was physically reacting to the drug, and he would later. Later, when the idea of being confined in a small tube for even a short amount of time didn’t make his skin crawl.

Maybe tomorrow he would agree to it.

It might have been part of the reason why when Tony asked a few hours later to borrow Clint’s hearing aids to make some upgrades, Clint agreed. That and the fact that Natasha had just returned with Steve. Decision to try trusting people aside, Clint didn’t exactly feel like having the Natasha style heart-to-heart of being chastised, yelled at, and reminded he was ‘important too, Clint’. He knew she had likely seen through his act at breakfast.

Giving up his ears was as good an excuse as any to slink away to his room, curl up on his couch, and avoid confrontation. Her eyes narrowed at him when he gestured helplessly to his ears, shaking his head when he passed her as he left the lab. Her arms crossed over her chest, and while he guessed she understood, he also knew there would be hell to pay later.

So he rested. When he finally woke up, he stared at the blank walls of the room for several hours more. There was something comforting about being able to dissociate, being able to separate himself from reality, all while maintaining the feeling of safety. He allowed himself to slip into a hazy half-sleep, pulling himself fully back into awareness only when darkness had fully set and the clock read well past midnight.

His body ached and he took a few minutes to stretch, working out his stiff joints, before deciding to try and find Tony. The inventor slept so infrequently and at such odd hours, that Clint wouldn’t be surprised if he was still awake.

A few minutes later, Clint opened the door to Tony’s lab and shuffled inside. He spotted Tony on the far side of the room, leaning over a table littered with metal pieces and wires, a soldering iron held firmly in the inventor’s hand. Tony didn’t hear Clint as he approached, too preoccupied with his project, but DUM-E noticed and rolled forward. The robot extended its arm toward Clint, probably beeping at him, and Clint smiled.

Clint patted the robot affectionately and sat on a stool across from Tony, watching him work for a few seconds before asking, “D’you have my hearin’ aids?”

Tony startled. He glanced at Clint then powered down the soldering iron while saying something to JARVIS. Clint realized Tony must have been listening to music when Tony raised his eyebrow questioningly at Clint.

“Do you have my hearing aids?” Clint asked again, careful to enunciate. He pointed at his ear with one hand.

Tony nodded. He shuffled through one of the desk drawers, eventually finding the box he was looking for and sliding it across the desk to Clint.

Clint examined his hearing aids carefully, checking them for any damage. He wasn’t sure what Tony did with them, but they didn’t look any different.

“They’re not goin’ to electrocute me when I put them in, are they?”

Tony grinned, more than a little amused, and shrugged. He said something and JARVIS flashed the words on a holographic screen.

“Only one way to find out.”

Clint smirked, put his hearing aids in, and turned them on.

AC/DC was playing lightly in the background, and he could hear DUM-E whirring around the lab. The noise was clearer than it had been hours earlier, the precision S.H.I.E.L.D. had never quite been able to achieve, improved beyond anything Clint would have imagined possible. Clint was kicking himself for not having Tony do something to them earlier.

“I modified the wiring and adjusted a few settings to improve sound conduction. I’ll have a better prototype ready in a few weeks after I’ve done some research and tested it,” Tony said. “I’m thinking nearly microscopic arc reactors as a battery source. Obviously, I’d cover the light, unless you want the insides of your ears to glow.”

“Thanks, Tony.” Clint picked up a metal nut, absentmindedly turning it over in his hand. “You don’t need to make any more upgrades. This is great as is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have a thousand ideas on ways to make improvements,” Tony said, waving vaguely in Clint’s direction. “Two weeks, Barton. You’ll wish you’d have mentioned something sooner.”

The nut from Clint’s hand bounced off of Tony’s forehead, and Clint returned Tony’s glare with a smile.

“Just making sure you’re real.”

“I don’t think anyone’s brain has the capacity to replicate this much genius.”

“I think you mean ‘ego’ not ‘genius.’”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“I’m sure you have,” Clint said, laughing. He stood up and stretched, eyes trailing around the room. “Well, this has been fun, Stark, but I’ll let you get back to your project. I’m going to see how these updated aids hold up against an angry Russian assassin.”

Clint took maybe two steps toward the door when Tony’s voice, surprisingly somber, made him stop.

“You’re a good actor, Clint. Your whole ‘nothing-can-phase-me’ routine is very convincing,” Tony said. He picked up a screwdriver and resumed working on his project, sparing a glance at Clint briefly. “I don’t think anyone except maybe Natasha and myself noticed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Doesn’t matter who you are, nobody is unaffected by torture,” Tony said. His jaw was clenched, body tensed despite his relaxed tone.

“What’s your point?” Clint growled, sounding more hostile than he intended. “You going to give me a lecture?”

“Not really the lecturing type. If you want to brood, go for it,” Tony said. “Point is, I’ve always preferred distractions. And I’m pretty good at making distractions if you need one.”

“The best distraction I have is archery, and I can’t do that with a gimp arm,” Clint said. He retook his seat on the stool, swiveling slightly.

“What about guns or knives?” Tony asked. “I bet I could find a laser somewhere around here that you could try.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.” Clint brightened, considered Tony for a minute before asking, “How’s your aim?”

“Wonderful.”

“And your aim without JARVIS assisting you?”

“Still wonderful.”

“That’s not what Rhodey said.”

“You talked to Rhodey about my aim?” Tony said, sounding surprised.

“More like I heard him telling Pepper about the time you tried to shoot out a streetlight.”

“Sir has an accuracy rating of 92.5% with my assistance and 77.6% without my assistance,” JARVIS chipped in, almost sounding smug.

“Everyone’s a critic these days,” Tony muttered.

“How would you like to improve your accuracy to 90%?” Clint’s leg bounced with nervous energy, ready to leave in case Tony said no.

Tony smiled, wiped his hands off on a rag, and stood up. “Sounds dangerous. And fun.”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

By the time Bruce stumbled into the lab the next morning, the lab was a mess. Clint was casually throwing knives at a target that had been haphazardly placed against the far wall, each one effortlessly hitting their target. Thor had wandered in earlier that morning and, to the other two’s delight, had taken to throwing spears and sparks of lightning at another target. If Bruce had to guess, Thor was responsible for most of the charred marks on the wall. Though he could be wrong considering Tony was lining up to shoot yet a third target with a repulsor blast.

He lined up his shot, ready to fire when Clint murmured something to him and Tony adjusted his stance. There was a whir, the gauntlet on Tony’s hand lighting up, before a beam shot out in a sudden burst. There was a neat hole in the center of the target, and Tony celebrated, pumping his fist in the air.

“Congratulations, sir,” JARVIS’s smooth voice announced, “You are now at 90% accuracy.”

Chapter Text

“So you’re telling me you haven’t made any progress?”

Bruce pushed up the glasses sitting on the edge of his nose, hands twitching nervously. He was starting to dread having this conversation. Even though Clint tried to hide it, Bruce could see his hope slipping further and further away every day that passed without a solid answer.

“It’s not that we haven’t made any progress,” Bruce said. “The chemical structure of the compound is complex. Steve and Natasha’s information has helped us pinpoint the molecular signature of it, but even so, finding a way to safely neutralize it requires us to isolate it and-“

“So you haven’t made any progress,” Clint interrupted. He turned his weary gaze from Bruce to Tony where the inventor had been watching from the sidelines.

“We can find it, but we can’t fix it,” Tony said. He crossed his arms in front of him and shrugged. “I thought it was getting better?”

“If you think having a five second delay between not saying anything and a skull splitting headache is an improvement, then yeah, I’m practically healed.” Clint slumped backward, the palms of his hands digging into his eyes.

Bruce felt Clint’s frustration, could empathize in his own way as he had been pouring over data and constantly felt the nagging thought at the back of his head saying he was missing something. Some days, he felt so frustrated and angry, he wanted to lock himself away in a Hulk-proof room and let the monster out.

Bruce pushed the feeling aside, and evaluated Clint. The cast had been removed, but the dark bags under his eyes were more prominent than ever. His shoulders were almost constantly drooping forward, his feet dragging with every step. His voice was hardly more than a raspy whisper, over-strained from constant use. Bruce got the impression Clint was struggling under the weight of weariness that had settled into his bones.

“It’s a step in the right direction, Clint. We just need more time,” Bruce said.

“Easy to say when you’re not the one being affected by it.”

“We’re doing the best we can.”

“And I appreciate that, I do, but it’s been almost a month.”

“I know, Clint. We’re trying everything. I wish we had more, but we don’t.”

Clint cursed in something that could have been Irish, and sat up, immediately folding in on himself. His right hand came up to rest on the back of his neck. “So where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Let’s give the modified body scanner another go,” Bruce said with a sigh. “We fine-tuned it to register the signature from the serum and quantify it. We can start keeping track of where your levels are day to day, and see if we can find any trends.”

Clint pushed heavily to a stand, ignoring Bruce’s outstretched hand. They walked to Medical, and before long, Clint was laying on the body scan machine table, wearing specially designed hearing aids that wouldn’t interfere with the machine, while Bruce and Tony watched from behind protective shielding.

The constant hum of the machine seemed to amplify as Bruce adjusted the settings, and the table slowly eased Clint into the machine.

“Alright, Clint, we’re going to start,” Bruce said. “We need to get a lock on the serum’s signature, and once we have that, we can quantify it. Try to stay still.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Aw, birdy, do you need a pillow? Want some relaxing pan flute music or some of those essence sticks Bruce uses to stink up his meditation room?” Tony replied.

“It’s called incense, Tony,” Bruce said.

“It’s called overwhelming, Bruce. Seriously, you chose lavender as your incense scent? If you had chosen vanilla, at least the tower would smell like a bakery, but lavender? Smells more like a new-age bookstore in there.”

The machine gave a soft beep, Bruce talking through what was happening with Clint while Tony pulled up the hologram of a body outline and adjusted settings on the machine.

“We’ve got a lock, Clint. Sit tight, we’re generating numbers now.”

“Awesome. Does this mean I’m allowed to talk again?”

“Aaaand done,” Tony said, pressing a button that lit up the hologram like a Christmas tree. “Congratulations, Barton, you are the proud owner of just over 60,000 units of truth serum.”

“Yay. Never been happier.”

“You know, I’m starting to think this not-really-a-truth serum might be a good thing. It’s really getting you to open up, tweety. I feel so connected to you.”

“Is that so, Stark?”

“It’s like I’m able to read your mind,” Tony said with a smirk.

“Then you should know what I’m thinking now.”

The screen flickered, and Bruce gave Tony a dirty look.

“You just thought how lucky you are to have me as a friend,” Tony said. “I have to admit, I’m touched you think so highly of me.”

Bruce tuned out their bantering, leaning closer to the hologram with wide eyes. “Clint, do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Think something. But don’t say anything.”

“Bruce?” Tony gave him a questioning look.

“Do it, Clint!” Bruce urged.

There was a second before the screen changed again, Tony’s expression switching to dumbstruck. “Son of a bitch.”

Bruce sat down, hand over his mouth. All the tension he had been holding on to left him in a rush. He was nearly dizzy with the revelation that the solution was right in front of them and easier than they could have imagined. The thing that they had been avoiding, the thing they had been telling Clint not to do-

“So am I dying?”

“No. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, but when you stopped talking, the reading changed. The units went down.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “I think we’ve been approaching this all wrong. We’ve been trying to find a way to extract the serum from your body when we what we needed to do was figure out a way for you to metabolize it.”

“You have almost a thousand fewer units than you did moments ago,” Tony added.

“My guess is that when you don’t speak, the serum is in effect and your body burns through it to make it work. We’ll keep trying to find a way to neutralize it, but the quickest way might be powering through it.”

“Sounds like a shit deal,” Clint said quietly.

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “It’s not ideal.”

Tony fiddled with the machine while Bruce was crunching numbers in his head, trying to figure out how long it would take to completely burn through the serum. The room was uncannily quiet, Bruce zoning out as he watched the serum units ticking down, moving steadily faster.

Bruce jolted upright. He smacked Tony, shouting at him to pull Clint out of the machine as he rushed into the room. He was cursing himself for not hooking Clint up to any monitors, an ECG at minimum, because Clint clearly wasn’t planning on taking a methodical, controlled approach.

“Clint, say something!”

Clint’s muscles were strung like cables, the knuckles of his fists white. His eyes were tightly shut, pain distorting his features and small growls escaping through clenched teeth. Bruce knew without a doubt that Clint was planning on pushing himself to the breaking point by burning through the serum in one go.

“Clint, stop!” Bruce yelled. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Bruce quickly reached out to feel for a pulse. Clint jerked away once, an unnatural keening noise escaping from him, but Bruce persisted. Instantly, Bruce could feel the galloping, tachycardic pulse under his fingers. The tremoring started soon after, racking up to whole body convulsions that shook the table violently. Bruce’s own heart pounded as Clint’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, arms moving spastically, and he lost consciousness.

“He’s seizing! Tony, get a med-kit ready!” Bruce turned Clint on his side, protecting his head as best as possible. “Make sure it has materials for an IV catheter. We’ll need Diazepam on standby, but we have to get him away from the MRI.”

Bruce didn’t bother waiting for a reply, turning his attention back to his patient.

Nearly a full minute later, the tremors began to die down. Clint’s muscles slowly relaxed, head falling to the side. Clint’s heart rate was still too high for Bruce’s taste, but it seemed to be returning to normal. Even Clint’s breathing was returning to normal.

Bruce breathed a sigh.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Bruce turned to find not only Tony, but the rest of the Avengers gathered just behind the safety barrier. Thor and Steve shared the same concerned, uncertain look. Natasha was glaring through the glass, arms crossed in front of her, and Bruce nearly took a step back at the waves of anger radiating from her stare.

“We need to move him to an actual bed,” Bruce said, breaking the silence. “Now, in case he starts seizing again.”

“You’ll need to restrain him.”

All eyes looked at Natasha, their stares a mixture of confusion. Her eyes never left Clint, her steely gaze hardening even more as if she could sense their resistance to the idea.

Bruce felt his heart sink.

“Natasha…”

“Restrain him,” she repeated firmly. “Or he’ll hurt someone.”

Bruce shared a look with Tony, then nodded.

Five minutes later, Clint was laying on one of the hospital beds in the medical wing, strong padded restraints fastened around his wrists and ankles and monitors attached to softly beeping machines. He had an IV catheter taped to the back of his hand, into which Bruce was injecting an anti-seizure medication into one of its ports. Natasha was standing on the other side of Clint’s bed, watching him intently.

“I don’t like this,” Steve said quietly.

He and Thor were standing warily near the doorway, trying to stay out of Bruce’s way. Tony had left to distract himself in his workshop.

Bruce opened his mouth to say something. He closed it, unable to find the words. Finally, he settled on “I don’t like it either.”

They fell silent. Bruce kept a close eye on the monitors, hoping it would eat away some of the guilt sitting heavily on him. He couldn’t have predicted that Clint would have a seizure. Medically speaking, he had done what he could, but the voice at the back of his mind kept asking him why he didn’t insist on attaching the monitors when Clint protested. Why didn’t he notice when Clint stopped talking and the values dropped? Why wasn’t he paying attention?

Natasha shifted subtly, expectantly, and had the room not been so still, Bruce was sure they all would have missed it.

They all turned their attention to Clint, following her lead. A few seconds passed, then a minute, and Bruce was on the verge of asking Natasha what she saw when Clint’s heart rate picked up. He shifted lethargically, hands and feet tugging absently at the restraints. His eyes fluttered open, looking blearily around the room, mouth moving silently.

Bruce felt himself relax. Encouraged by the lack of a struggle coming from Clint, he moved forward to undo the restraints, but Natasha shook her head.

“You restrained me?” Clint paused as if waiting for a reply, eyes attempted to focus unsteadily on something only he could see near the foot of the bed. “I thought we were past that, Barn? What happened to fightin’ fair?”

“You’re at the tower, Clint,” Natasha said. She stepped closer, looking to catch his eye, but Clint either didn’t see her or didn’t care.

At least that was what Bruce thought until Clint lunged forward, trying the smash his head into hers. She neatly sidestepped the maneuver as Clint began to thrash against his restraints with as much strength as he had left.

“Son of a bitch, how could you?” he yelled. “You’d let him kill me?”

The monitors let out shrill cries, the situation devolving as Clint attempted to pull out his catheter, a sense of panic rising as he started yelling. Bruce had a syringe in hand, halfway through drawing up a sedative when Natasha grabbed each of Clint’s hands in her own and pressed them firmly into the bed.

“They’re not real,” she said. “Clint, you’re gonna be alright.”

Clint turned in her direction, eyes never truly focusing on her, but her voice must have made its way through the current fog clouding his mind. He seemed to surrender, collapsing back into the bed, pushing his neck backwards into the mattress.

“Nat?” he finally grit out.

“Yes.”

“Head trauma, drugs, or mind control?”

“Seizure.”

“That’s a new one.”

“Hard to believe that’s still possible.” Natasha released his arms. She sat down on one of the chairs, her feet propped up on Clint’s bed. She glared at the others, and Bruce got the distinct impression she was asserting her possessiveness over Clint, daring them to make a comment. When they didn’t, her hackles seemed to lower, and in a somewhat gentler tone, she said, “Go to sleep. We’ll talk when you’re lucid.”

Clint didn’t need any further prompting, unconscious the second his head settled back on the pillow.

“Does that happen often?” Bruce asked.

Natasha shrugged. “Head injuries or needing to be restrained?”

>>--------> >>------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>-------> >>------->

Clint came to slowly, a dull headache simmering at his temples. He pushed himself into a sitting position, as much as he could with the restraints still in place, and blinked against the too bright lights.

“Are you lucid yet?”

Clint let his eyes drop closed, a small smile on his face at her voice.

“Depends on how solid you are.”

Clint let out a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh as Natasha kicked him not unkindly. He saw her smirk, legs propped up on the side of his bed with an ease born out of familiarity.

“Alright. Get your stinky feet off me, Romanoff. I’ve been tortured enough.”

Natasha gave him one last kick for good measure and stood. She made quick work of undoing his restraints, offering him a hand, and pulling him to the edge of the bed where they sat side by side.

“How much do you remember?” she asked.

“They told me not talking would burn through the serum. Then I had a seizure.”

“Maybe you overdid it.”

“You know, I was thinking the same thing around the time I started seizing.”

“Want to get out of here?”

“Hell, yes.”

It was an unspoken agreement that they head to the kitchen. It was empty, Clint taking a seat at the island while Natasha pulled out the necessary supplies for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, passing them to Clint when she had finished making her own. He slathered the bread with a heaping layer of peanut butter followed by a similarly sized layer of jelly before taking a bite.

It was amazing how good a simple sandwich could be. He took another bite, savoring the taste, when a glob of filling hit the counter. “Aw, sandwich, no,” Clint said.

Natasha tossed him a towel and he cleaned up the mess. She did her best to seem preoccupied with her food, but he could see her watching him out of the corner of his eye. She looked away when he turned to her, her eyes flitting back to him, widening innocently.

“I’m fine,” Clint said.

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

“Yeah, but you were staring at me in that way which means you’re either concerned or angry.” Clint took another bite, mouth still full when he asked, “So which is it?”

“Bold of you to assume it can only be one or the other.” Natasha smirked, and Clint couldn’t help grinning back at her. “Does this mean we’re ready to talk?”

“I suppose it’s as good a time as any to act like we’re not both emotionally repressed.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Well, you started it.”

“Mature, Clint.”

“You distanced yourself from me after S.H.I.E.L.D. discovered Hydra had infiltrated them. Ignored me as much as you could while we were working with the Avengers. Then you left me for a solo mission that you requested without saying a goddamn word to me, Nat.” Clint took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair so it balanced on two legs. “Excuse me for feeling a little petty.”

“You’re right. After we exposed all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets, I felt exposed. I thought I needed some space, and I went about it the wrong way,” Natasha said.

“That’s an excuse.” The chair thumped on the floor as Clint let it fall back on all four legs. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, his voice teasing when he added, “It’s a very nice excuse. Flattering actually, but it’s not exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, mouth twitching in a way that told Clint she was fighting down her own amusement. “What do you want then? You want me to say I’m sorry?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m sorry you felt abandoned.”

“First of all, I forgive you. Second, I’m starting to think we have a different definition of what an apology is. That was not an actual apology.”

“It was a perfect apology. I said I’m sorry.”

“You said you were sorry for how I felt. That’s like saying ‘I’m sorry you think the sky is green.’ You’re not admitting you’re wrong, you’re just saying you’re sorry the other person is stupid.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I don’t see the difference.”

They stared at each other, both attempting to look serious before Clint started laughing. Once he started, Natasha followed, and Clint was struck by the realization that, god, he missed this. He missed staying up way too late, eating junk food, and just talking with Nat. Whatever wall had been put up between them was being pulled apart, and it was like a weight being lifted from him.

“You owe me an apology now,” Nat demanded. “It’s only fair after I apologized to you for being distant, that you apologize to me for avoiding me.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Tasha.” Clint’s hand rubbed at the back of his neck. “Dunno why I did it. I think I was feeling petty and a bit guilty about not telling you about my hearing sooner.”

“You could have told me,” Tasha said, her voice gentle but firm. “I wouldn’t have treated you any different.”

“Obviously you did know.”

“There’s a reason I’m a highly ranked spy, Clint. I notice when my partner fails to show up for accidental, middle-of-the-night fire alarms.” Natasha looked proud of herself, a sly gleam in her eyes. “I also notice when Coulson is muttering to himself about having to put in his tenth request in two months for new hearing aids.”

“Hey. Eight of those were not my fault. S.H.I.E.L.D. should be better at water-proofing their gear.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint laughed, holding up his fist out for a bump, a twinkle in his eyes. “Still friends then?”

Natasha rolled her eyes again, meeting his fist with her own. “Obviously.”

The conversation fell into a lull, and Clint hesitated before letting his mind wander. There were a few seconds when he didn’t feel anything before the headache started again. Maybe it was the dullness from the last headache, or maybe it was knowing that the pain was helping him get rid of it, but the pain seemed more bearable than before. He let it last for several seconds as Natasha watched him warily, before clearing his mind and saying, “What time is it, Nat?”

Natasha ignored the question. “I’m not breaking you out of medical again if you have another seizure.”

“Yeah, I’m not planning on letting it get that far.”

Clint caught sight of Tony, face and shirt smudged with oil, entering the kitchen on the far side and raised his hand in greeting. The genius, billionaire, engineer-turned-medical expert nodded, grabbed a cup of coffee, and joined them at the table. “The headaches are getting better though, right? They're not as strong?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Doesn’t start as soon as before.” Clint nodded, eyes brightening as an idea popped into his head. “We ought to check the feeds, see how long it took from the start of the headache to when I started seizing to make a safety window.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll have JARVIS look into it.”

“Clint?”

Clint turned to Natasha, an eyebrow raised. Her expression was hard to read but seemed to be equal parts curious and cautious. The same look she’d wear when Clint would suggest a less than ideal, yet often necessary plan when one of their missions took a turn sideways. The look she had been wearing recently when…

When he’d been hallucinating and talking to people not really there.

“I’m guessing Tony Stark didn’t just walk into the room?”

“No. But you still had a good idea.”

Aw, futz. It was bad enough when the hallucinations were of people he hadn’t seen in years, worse still when they were people in the tower.

“Do you think the hallucinations will get worse the more you fight the serum?” Natasha asked.

“God, I hope not.”

Chapter Text

This was all Natasha’s fault. Sure, Clint’s own natural bad luck was more than capable of accomplishing the same thing, but Natasha broke the cardinal rule. The one rule Clint faithfully abided by each and every day.

Don’t say it could be worse.

How long had they worked together? How many times had she said those words and watched everything go from…well, usually already very bad to very worse?

The headaches were near constant now. Even when he wasn’t actively trying to burn through the serum, there was a dull ache that followed him around from the time he woke up to the time he fell asleep.

The hallucinations became more unpredictable. They started happening when he was having conversations. He’d suddenly see his brother in the corner of the room or Jacques would appear, sharpening his sword, next to Steve. For the most part, those he could ignore, with nobody was the wiser.

It was harder when he was having a conversation with Tony and a second Tony walked through the doorway. Or he was teaching Steve sign language, and Bruce would walk in and ask him if everything was alright with a concerned look.

Which might have been fine every now and then, but ever since Clint’s seizure, the others were reluctant to leave him alone for fear he would do something stupid. Which, okay, was a fair concern. Except it made it harder to pretend he wasn’t seeing things. It also made it harder for his teammates to ignore what was happening and resist the compulsion to help him.

And there must have been a meeting at some point that Clint missed, because suddenly their grand solution to helping him determine hallucination from reality was to touch him.

Squeezing his shoulder.

Patting his back.

A hip bump.

A half-hug.

A poke.

Clint nearly broke Tony’s hand when Tony tried to ruffle his hair.

As much as Clint blamed Natasha for her role in this, thank God, her approach was messing with the other Avengers or throwing things at him instead.

It’s a short-term thing, Clint told himself. He’d just have to get used to it.

Bruce nudged Clint’s foot with his own and offered him a cup of coffee. Clint grit his teeth and smiled, nodding his head in thanks.

He could do this. He’d been through worse.                

>>-------->    >>------>     >>------->     >>------->     >>------->     >>------->     >>------->

Clint was fidgeting. He knew he was fidgeting because every now and then Natasha would throw him a furtive glance that was simultaneously sympathetic and told him to knock it off, you’re being too obvious.

And he would stop. Briefly.

Then Tony would walk out of the living room on his way to get another cup of coffee, and pat Clint’s shoulder on the way. Or Steve would nudge him in the side to remind him not to stay quiet or to point to whatever real person had suddenly entered the room. Or Thor would sling an arm around his shoulders in a one-armed embrace as Clint tried to slink away and ask him where he was going.

Too many people were invading his personal space.

It was making his skin crawl. 

He was embarrassed to say his resolve was crumbling, hastened by inadequate sleep.

The hallucinations weren’t fun, but this…this was going to break him.

Harold Barton stood smoking a cigarette in the corner of the room, dark eyes narrowed reproachfully, and Clint glared back at him. It was like his dad was goading him, trying to get Clint to acknowledge him, knowing somebody would place a painfully gentle hand on his shoulder to try and shake him out of it.

The thought alone was enough to start his foot jackhammering against the floor. His eyes flickering between the television and his dad. His shoulders subconsciously raised protectively to shield himself. All while his dad watched judgmentally. Mockingly. The two-timing son of a-

“Clint!”

Steve’s fingers had barely grazed him before Clint jumped to his feet, ripping his arm away.

“The next person who futzin’ touches me is getting a broken arm or an arrow to the knee!” Clint yelled. His heart thudded in his chest, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. Natasha’s eyes were watching calmly, Steve and Thor were frozen in shock. Clint closed his eyes, digging the heels of his hands into them until he saw spots, then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I know you’re just trying to help; I do. But I can’t-”

Clint dropped his hands. He took one look at their faces, one look at the stormy look in his dad’s eyes, and the skittishness he had spent decades tamping down found its way to the surface. He turned toward the door and almost ran into Tony. He almost hesitated, almost apologized sheepishly, and almost rejoined his teammates, albeit sitting far out of reach.

Then Tony moved to touch him, and Clint found himself hardening. He stood taller, muscles tightening, as a mask of intimidation covered his face. His voice left no room for argument. “Move.”

Tony reacted on instinct. His back jolted against the wall as he quickly stepped away. 

Clint slipped by without another word.

He passed the elevator, slammed through the stairwell doors, and ran up the stairs two at a time. His footsteps echoed loudly, but Clint hardly noticed. 

He needed distance from everyone. 

Space to chill the futz out and regain a level head. 

Preferably somewhere nobody could follow him.

The vents were a good choice, but too claustrophobic for what he needed. The roof was a better option. He could try to lock it or barricade it, and if push came to shove, he’d climb up and squirrel away in the large “A” that Tony refused to have removed from the tower. Maybe Clint would scale it just for the hell of it.

The roof door creaked as Clint stepped out into the open air, sucking in deep breaths. The harsh sound of metal on metal made when the door closed had him whipping around.

Clint stumbled backwards

He lost his footing, elbows scraping against the cement as he fell. He crawled backwards until he couldn’t go any further. He turned off his hearing aids then buried his face in shaking hands.

But it didn’t matter if he was only a hallucination. 

He could smell the cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave his dad always wore. He could feel the weight of heavy footsteps against the floor as he moved closer. And he didn’t need to hear him to know what he’d be saying.

Pathetic for trying to run away from his problems.

A disappointment. What kind of coward can’t even look him in the eye?

Worthless.

Of all the insults Clint had heard over the years, that was always the one that stung the most.

Clint took a deep breath. 

He reminded himself it wasn’t real.

He looked up at the hallucination hovering over him. He pushed himself to his feet and stared at its face, watching it flicker. Pieces of Barney, Jacques, and Chisholm rotating through in a montage of mentors he’d failed. It settled once more on his dad’s face.

The pain in Clint’s head spiked.

His dad smiled.

Clint walked through the hallucination, slamming the roof door behind him. He headed for the range, needing to shoot something. Needing to see the arrows hit their target over and over to prove to himself that he was worth something. Even if it was only as a weapon, he was worth something to someone.

Tasha saw it in him. Director Fury, reluctant as he was to admit it, did too.

And Coulson saw it in him when nobody else did.

Clint reached the range and ordered JARVIS to lock down the area as he turned his hearing aids back on.

His bow was a welcome weight in his hand, the arrows familiar as he drew them back and fired, hearing the faint thwick when they landed. Nerves buzzing like livewires numbed with the repetition of watching each arrow unerringly hit their target. He shot until his muscles burned with a pleasantly familiar ache, and JARVIS suggested he should, perhaps, take a break.

Clint ignored him.

The discomfort was a good distraction. It helped keep the hallucinations away, even when he tested the limits of trying to burn the serum out. It wasn’t the same as sleeping, but the blankness it brought to his mind was appreciated.

Clint kept shooting until sweat covered his back, his arms shook with the exertion of pulling back the string, and his fingers bled. He’d thrown aside his arm guard at some point, a large bruise quickly blossoming on his forearm where his string had begun to hit as his exhaustion made him sloppy.

But he never missed.

He was nocking an arrow when the door to the range flew off its hinges. He had an arrow pointed at the entrance before it hit the ground as Thor and Steve entered slowly.

They were treating him like a cornered, skittish dog. Clint laughed, but he didn’t lower his weapon.

Steve said something, stepping closer, but Clint just tightened his string. His bow wavered only for a second, as the string became slick with fresh blood.

He wasn’t going to let them near him. He wouldn’t let them tie him down again.

If they were hallucinations, the arrow wouldn’t hurt them. If they weren’t, Clint had given them a warning.

Thor cautiously moved Steve out of the way, his hands up in front of him as he stood in front of Clint. Clint could almost see the gears turning in his head. People didn’t give Thor enough credit, Clint thought. He was a perceptive guy.

Slowly, Thor’s right hand closed into a fist and he extended it out to Clint.

Confusion crossed Clint’s face, and he relaxed the bowstring, tilting the arrow down. It took him far longer than it should have for him to realize that Thor, Son of Odin, Future King of Asgard, was offering him a fist bump.

It took several moments for Clint to convince his cramped fingers to relax their grip. They seemed to protest, trembling, as he reformed a loose fist. He hesitated for only a moment before his hand shot out and his knuckles knocked against Thor’s.

It seemed to be the signal his brain was waiting for to turn back online.

And the first thing it thought was, god, he was stupid.

Not worthless.

Just an idiot.

Steve started to offer his own hand, and Clint shook his head.

“Thor touched you, Steve, I know you’re real.” Clint looked at his hands and huffed at the raw, blistered skin. Angry at himself for risking his recovery, he looked around and grabbed a cleaning rag, wrapping it around his bleeding hand. “Sorry. Got a little carried away.”

If Steve wanted to argue Clint should use proper bandages, he didn’t. “What set you off?”

“Guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Clint tightened the bandage further. “And the stress. I’ve been told that particular combination makes me reckless.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

Clint shrugged. “Stop trying to help me.”

Steve and Thor shared a look.

“You’ve gotta give me some space,” Clint said. He turned away, packing away his bow with more aggression than he normally did. “You’re killing me with kindness. I can’t stand all the touching and constant surveillance.”

“We did not mean to offend you,” Thor said.

“I know,” Clint said. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s not your fault. Blame it on me being a spy; we tend to be overly territorial about personal space.”

“We should have taken the hint or asked you if it was okay first,” Steve said. “We’re sorry. I can’t speak for the others, but I have a hard time standing by and watching when I feel like there’s something I can do to help.”

“The hallucinations can’t hurt me.” Clint held up his wrapped hand and said, “This was a fluke. I promise I’ll be fine alone. No more self-destruction, I swear. You can have JARVIS on standby or I can check in. Just give me a chance to figure things out on my own.”

“Clint-“

“I know what just happened doesn’t inspire confidence, but you gotta trust me on this.”

Clint thought Steve was going to disagree. Steve’s mouth had set into that tight line he got when he didn’t like what he was hearing. Clint waited for Steve to say it was irresponsible for Clint to be left alone. Wasn’t that how Clint got hurt in the first place?

And okay, if Steve said it was best for the team to stay together while Clint was dealing with this, big whoop. Natasha would be on his side, and it wouldn’t take much for Clint to coerce her into smuggling him out of the tower to hide out in one of their safe-houses until he was better. 

“Okay,” Steve said finally. “Of course we trust you.”

Clint felt a weight lift.

“Perhaps we can find an alternative solution as well,” Thor said thoughtfully. “For when we are all together.”

“I think you already found one, buddy,” Clint said. 

Clint held out his fist to Thor for another bump, then turned to Steve. He smiled, and extended his fist. “Thanks.”

Steve returned the gesture. “Anytime”

Chapter Text

Clint was getting better.

The other Avengers had a hard time believing it considering Clint made himself exceptionally scarce for almost two weeks after the ‘arrow to the knee’ incident, but Natasha knew better. Clint liked to sort things out on his own. The stubborn idiot had an independent streak a mile wide, and his preferred method of recovering was going off alone to lick his wounds.

There were probably healthier ways to cope, but who was Natasha to judge considering her own coping methods were just as questionable.

And in this case, it made sense for him to be alone. Clint told Natasha before disappearing that he thought it would be easier judging what was and wasn’t real if there wasn’t anybody else around. It was surprisingly sound and convenient logic, Natasha thought wryly. A reasonable enough request, and she trusted him to seek her out if he needed someone.

It helped that Clint left little clues around the Tower reassuring them he was still nearby. The more obvious were the sticky notes Clint left in places he knew she would find them. Sticky notes on her mirror reminding her to floss, on the punching bag in the gym saying ‘punch here’, and a couple scrunched up in the toes of her shoes that didn’t say anything at all. The sticky notes ended when Natasha opened her freezer to find a sticky note saying ‘IOU’ on an empty carton of her favorite ice cream, and she responded by pinning a sticky note saying ‘pay up now’ to his door with a knife.

The clues became more subtle at that point. Steve wandered around the common areas in confusion for an entire afternoon while looking for his sweatshirt only for it to appear on the floor of his room later, looking dustier than he remembered. Thor and Bruce reported hearing strange noises coming from the ceiling and weird glitches where the television would switch from whatever they were watching to random dinosaur movies.

The first real indicator that Clint was getting better, though, was when a disheveled Tony stormed into the kitchen carrying an empty coffee pot, yelling, “Where the hell is, Barton?”

Steve looked up from his paper, taken aback by the murderous look on Tony’s face. “Everything okay, Tony?”

“No, it’s not. Do you know how many times over the last few weeks I’d brew a pot of coffee and come back later to find it lower than I left it? I thought I was going crazy when I’d start a pot, and come back after five minutes to find it empty. It turns out Barton-“ Tony shook the empty pot for emphasis, “-has been thieving coffee from me.”

“Couldn’t you make a new pot of coffee?” Steve asked pragmatically.

“I did. I stood by the coffee pot the entire time, and emptied it all into a thermos. I get back to my desk, pour myself a cup, and you know what I realize when I take a drink?” Tony asked. “The bastard had switched the beans to decaf before sneaking away! And JARVIS won’t tell me where he is.”

“What’s wrong with decaf?” Bruce asked. “They taste the same, don’t they?”

The ensuing ten-minute rant, which ended with Tony leaving in an affronted state to chase down Clint, left Natasha in a good mood. If the soft chuckling from the vents was any sign, it left Clint in a good mood, too.

But the day that Natasha knew without a doubt that Clint was improving, the day she knew he was finally done moping, was when she walked into the common room kitchen one evening to find him making carnival food.

A large bowl of caramel corn and candied nuts was already on the counter, a sizeable chunk missing from one side where Thor was helping himself to large handfuls. His attention was raptly focused on Clint who was regaling him with trapeze stories as he mixed batter together, pausing every now and then to expertly toss a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

Clint smiled when he caught sight of Natasha.

“Just in time, Nat,” Clint said as he poured the batter through a funnel into a hot pan of oil. “Your funnel cake is almost ready.”

“You didn’t tell me you were making funnel cakes,” Natasha said. She took a seat next to Thor and pulled the popcorn toward her.

“I figured the smell would lure you down to the kitchen,” Clint replied. “Did it work?”

“Thor had JARVIS alert everyone there was food in the kitchen.”

Clint shot Thor an affronted look. Thor simply shrugged and tossed a piece of popcorn at Clint that Clint caught in his mouth. “You said it was a dish traditionally served at fairs. In Asgard, fairs are a time for people to gather, share food and drink, and make merry. It seemed only fitting that the others join us.”

“But the first funnel cake is mine,” Natasha clarified.

“The Nat-mare always goes first,” Clint said, pulling the funnel cake out of the oil and setting it on a plate. He piled it high with chocolate syrup, hot fudge, cherries, sprinkles, ice cream, whipped cream, and a thick layering of powdered sugar before pushing the plate into Natasha’s eagerly awaiting hands. “Seriously, Nat. You can’t even taste it under all the toppings.”

“That’s why you always make me two.” Natasha smiled sweetly and took a large bite of the funnel cake, savoring the flavor. She loaded up a forkful and held it out Clint. “You can’t deny, it is delicious.”

Clint grinned and accepted the bite.

“It’s a frighteningly delicious monstrosity,” Clint said between chews. Another funnel cake covered in powdered sugar slid across the counter and stopped neatly in front of Thor. “You’ve got to try the original before you get to customize.”

Thor ripped off a large chunk of the hot dough with his fingers and shoved it in his mouth. His face lit up, powdered sugar sprinkling his beard as he took another large bite and proclaimed, “This is delicious!”

“What’s delicious?” Tony asked as he and Bruce rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Bruce’s eyes brightened when they landed on the fried dough, and he eagerly took a seat next to Natasha. “Are those elephant ears?”

“Funnel cakes,” Clint said. He finished preparing another one and stuck it on the table between him and Natasha. “You can have the next one.”

“That must make this one mine.” Tony’s hand reached out for the funnel cake only to be slapped away in warning by Natasha’s fork.

“This one’s mine,” Natasha said.

“But you already have one!”

“And now I have two.” Natasha pointedly took a bite of the new funnel cake. She gave him a small smirk as Clint laughed and tore off a piece of her funnel cake, popping it in his own mouth with a smug look.

“Why does he get to eat it?” Tony asked, shaking his hand out and pointing at Clint.

“Because she likes me more than you,” Clint replied. “You can have the one after Bruce.”

“That’s not fair, it’s my kitchen.”

“Well, if you kick me out now, you don’t get any.” Clint stared and took another large bite out of Natasha’s funnel cake. “Patience is a virtue.”

“This coming from the man who gets antsy waiting on the toaster.”

“I didn’t say it was one of my virtues.” A fresh funnel cake slid down the counter and landed in front of Bruce. Clint started on the next one as Steve entered the room. He perked up, a sly grin on his face as he looked from Tony to Steve. “Hey Steve! You want a funnel cake? This one’s all yours.”

“Come on! Are you serious?!”

“Am I missing something?” Steve asked, taking a seat at the counter.

“Nah. Tony’s just being dramatic,” Clint said while Tony yanked the popcorn bowl toward himself. “You probably went to Coney Island as a kid, am I right, Cap?”

“When we could afford it.”

“The carnie who worked concessions for Carson’s used to make them at Coney Island. He never told anybody why he left and joined a traveling circus, but rumor had it he killed a clown over a rigged game of sheepshead.” Clint shrugged and plated the fried dough, dousing it with powdered sugar. “That’s beside the point, dude was a nice enough old geezer and he taught us how to make funnel cakes in exchange for distracting health inspectors. This recipe is the same one they used at Coney.”

The plate stopped in front of Steve, and Clint waited expectantly. Steve looked torn between asking for clarification on Clint’s story and trying to forget the details. Apparently deciding he didn’t want the headache, Steve opted to just eat the funnel cake. His face lit up at the first taste, chewing slowly to savor the flavor. Natasha would have to tease him later about how his eyes got misty with nostalgia.

“This tastes exactly how I remember it,” Steve said with a slow smile.

“That’s because it’s the same recipe. Weren’t you listening to anything I said?” Clint snarked.

“It’s probably for the best if he didn’t,” Tony said. “I think it would be an affront to his moral sensibilities.”

Clint snickered and finally slid a funnel cake in front of Tony who looked at it with delight.

“Ignoring that. Now that your arm is healed up, Clint, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you wanted to join us for training.” Steve shifted in his chair, trying to hide nervousness with earnestness. “You’ve trained with Natasha, but the rest of us haven’t had much of a chance to train as a group before this and I figured it would be good practicing with different fighting styles.”

“I’m still a bit rusty, but sure,” Clint said. He wiped his hands off on a towel. “I’m game.”

“Excellent! Team practice tomorrow then.”

“Good because after all of this, the only thing I plan on doing today is napping,” Clint said.

“Games first,” Natasha insisted. “It’s been a while since I’ve crushed you in Monopoly.”

“Monopoly is too intense, and you always get the dark blues,” Clint whined. His eyes twinkled and he shared a mischievous grin with Natasha. “We’ve got even numbers. How about we teach them to play team UNO?”

Team Uno, as Clint well knew, had led to far more shouting matches and death threats than Monopoly ever had on the Helicarrier. One of Natasha’s fondest memories was when Clint had somehow convinced Coulson and Sitwell to play with them. It was where Natasha learned that Coulson’s calm demeanor could be shattered, and it only took Clint making him draw at least fifteen cards before going out and ending the game. Not only did Natasha learn some colorful threats, she had the pleasure of watching Coulson chase a cackling Clint around the table.

“I don’t think they’re going to want to play a kid’s game,” Natasha said, faking reluctance. She stood up and moved around the table, filling a glass with water before leaning on the counter next to Clint. “It’s not as exciting.”

“I like UNO,” Bruce said, perking up. “My cousins and I used to play it all the time as kids.”

“I too am familiar with this game,” Thor said. “Darcy, Jane, and myself used to play it often.”

“Then it’s settled,” Clint said. “Food then UNO.”

Clint’s arm wrapped around Natasha’s back, his hand squeezing her shoulder before going back to what he was doing. His elbow bumped against hers as he talked in a comforting, grounding way. The little touches his own way of saying ‘sorry’ and ‘I’m here’ in a more reassuring way than words could have.

Natasha rested a hand between his shoulder blades, barely enough pressure for him to feel it through his shirt, then stepped away to give him space. Her own version of forgiveness.

She saw Clint’s eyes flick behind the group for no more than a second before returning to Tony’s face. He smiled like nothing had happened and flicked powdered sugar into the man’s hair.

He was better, Natasha decided, grabbing a bottle of chocolate sauce and planning her attack.

Clint was going to be fine.