This is my first attempt at a 5+1 story, so just hoping that it goes well :) The chapters will vary in length depending on who Steve is helping, and there will be 6 in total. The first chapter is Clint, and the next one will be either Bruce or Thor. I will try to update once a day or every two days. Hope you all enjoy and feel free to leave a review!

I don't own any of the characters, as I am not Marvel.

Clint

It started with a creak. It always started with some small amount of white noise. A squeaky door, the air conditioning rumbling, something that would trigger a terrible memory and jolt Clint from his sleep, knife from under the mattress already in hand. After a minute of harsh breathing and double checking the windows, doors, and vents for intruders, Clint would set the knife down and sit on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. It was only after checking his clock to find that it was some ungodly hour in the morning that he would enter the elevator and ride down to the communal floor.

By the time the coffee was brewed and a mug was in his hand, Clint was shaking so badly that he had to put the cup down in fear of dropping it. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself and grasping the edges of the counter, he would repeat his calm-down mantra in his head.

"You are not in combat. You are in the Avengers Tower, the safest place probably in the galaxy. Nothing can hurt you. This is not Budapest."

He would say it over and over in his head, mumbling out the words under his breath, until he regained control of his body and was able to pick up the mug again.

Of course, what he didn't account for was the fact that he was being watched. Clint could feel their eyes on his back right after he had calmed down. Whipping around and poised to throw the mug, he stopped just short of letting the ceramic fly when he saw Steve standing in the kitchen.

In surprise, Clint dropped the mug, which shattered into hundreds of pieces on the floor. More white noise. Things crashing, breaking. A bomb barreling into a building and smashing all of the windows, sending debris into the streets surrounding it.

"It's a mug, get ahold of yourself, Barton," he chided himself and looked to Steve with an embarrassed look on his features. "Shi-" Clint started.

"Language," Steve finished, cracking a smile at the running joke the team had. He grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet and swept up the shards, dumping them into the trash as he did.

Clint felt a small pain in his foot and looked down to see a small piece of the mug imbedded in his flesh. As he reached down to take it out, the memory of the explosion his him again. The one where he was left picking bone shards from his friend out of his hands.

"Clint, you okay?" Steve asked worriedly, looking at the way Clint gazed at the mug piece in his hand before tossing it into the sink.

" 'M fine," the archer muttered, grabbing another mug and pouring himself some of the steaming dark brew.

"And I'm a showgirl." The captain paused at his response before adding, "well, that's partly true…"

Clint chuckled and took a sip of the coffee. It filled him with warmth and drove the demons away. At least for now.

"Why are you up this early?" Steve questioned.

"Couldn't sleep," was his short and honest reply.

"Nightmares?" Clint nodded, the only response that he had to give; the only one that felt right and true. "Those can be a pain," he said, not knowing what other way to put it.

"No, no, they're dandy. I leave my door open sometimes just waiting for them to walk in." Clint's voice was dripping sarcasm as he stared into his mug and the tiny ripples in the liquid as his hand began to shake again. "By them, I mean the people. And the blood. And the explosions. I can still hear them ringing in my ears. The bombs, the shrapnel, the screaming civilians." Clint's voice teetered off into silence and he set the mug down. Images of the white hot flames danced in his mind. The shrill, piercing screams of a woman trapped under the rubble. The crying of a child.

All because he had failed to draw their fire. Innocent lives had perished because he had not made the rendezvous in time. More blood on his hands. More crimson to sink into the lines on his skin, impossible for him to wash out.

"Clint!" He heard someone calling his name, from inside the building as he looked up towards the flames charring everything inside. Pieces began to fall away, littering the streets. Screaming everywhere. The other agent that had been with him was too close to the blast. He now lay in a crumpled pile on the sidewalk, his shattered bones evident.

Clint absent-mindedly picked out a piece of shrapnel from his hand, hoping that it was wood, or cement, or metal. But it was white and chalky. Bone.

His mind reeled as he fought back the bile that rose in his throat. The screaming continued as people got on their phones to cal for emergency, for fire trucks, for any kind of help. Anything to help the poor people, the dead and dying, still trapped in the collapsing building.

But he couldn't do anything. He didn't watch, he didn't help, he didn't stand there and gape at what he had caused.

No, he was a coward. They were catching up to him and the Quinjet was a few blocks away. He did what he had to do in order to get back in one piece. A decision that still haunted him years later. He ran. Away from the flames. Away from the screaming. Away from the mass that used to be an agent. He simply ran away. His feet pounded on the pavement and he concentrated on the objective ahead.

Get to the Quinjet. Get medical attention for the nasty wound in his side. Everything else would have to wait.

"Clint!" The voice jarred him from the memory and he shook his head to see Steve shaking his shoulders. The soldier's icy blue eyes were set with distress. "You're okay, you're safe. Not in combat. You're here, with me, in this overly furnished kitchen that none of us really use." He added the last part lightly, hoping to make Clint crack a smile.

Under other circumstances, it would have worked, but the blood had drained from Clint's face and the most that he could do was utter a half-hearted smirk.

"You okay?" His eyes searched the archer's unsteady face, whose gaze was still turned to the floor.

Clint took a deep sigh. "I think we both know the answer to that question. You don't have to play captain psychiatrist," he replied, trying to get the worried look off of Steve's face. "Bruce told me about the time Tony tried to tell him his life story. He's not that kind of doctor, but he plays a better psychiatrist than you."

"Well, it helps to have had some experience. As you can tell, I have none."

He removed his hand from Clint's shoulder with a small smile, dropping the hand down by his side. Seeing that Clint had control and didn't seem to be going back into a memory, Steve turned to the couches, where his sketchbooks lay.

If Clint had walked over and felt the pencils, they would have still been warm from Steve's hand that had been drawing all night. His tea, long forgotten, was cold in the cup on the table. The flat part of the captain's right hand was stained silver from the graphite. However, Clint didn't notice these things. He stayed in the kitchen, watching as Steve walked over to the sitting area.

"Hey, Cap?" he said sheepishly.

Steve turned, a questioning look on his face.

"Thanks," was the archer's reply.

"Any time." The captain gave a small smile and sat down on the couch, pulling the sketchpad on top of him. They lapsed into silence; Steve drawing, and Clint drinking his coffee as the sun began to light up the city.