A/N: PHEW! It's MUCH later than I should be up. But I couldn't go to bed before posting this. (grins) Here comes the mini-story I promised you!

First, though…!

DISCLAIMER: Yeeeeeeeah, right… Just checked. I still don't have the kind of money it'd take to own ANYTHING more than DVDs with Jeremy Renner on them. (Typing that HURTS, you know?)

WARNINGS: graphic description of injuries, language (Steve, I'm so sorry!), weirdness… anyone out there…?

Awkay, because I need to go to bed and I don't want to change my mind… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

To the Bone

Sixth

Reporter Elisha Mayer's big, brown eyes were full of genuine grief as she looked into the camera. From the ruins of what used to be a massive building wind blew dust to her long, nearly black hair. "… 51 people lost their lives in the explosion of the mall and the fire which followed. The cause of this devastating tragedy is currently unknown …"

51 people, and somehow Clint Barton wasn't one of them.

He lay in a hospital bed. Stared at the ceiling while the news reporter's voice echoed, not much more than static to him. White assaulted his eyes, and for some unexplainable season his attention became fixed on a tiny crack.

Clint didn't know what power, force or… something it was that kept him alive. Why he was still… around when so many other people weren't. Why he was still alive with half of him missing.

He didn't remember why he went to the mall anymore. Did it even matter? He remembered picking up a toy and looking at it. He began to turn around. And then…

Hands on him.

Pain.

Voices.

The first absolutely certain memory he had was Laura sitting beside his bed. Watching him with incredibly sad eyes. She told him that the medical personnel had no other choice but to amputate both his legs.

Clint couldn't remember the explosion, but he did remember – with nauseating accuracy – the sensation of being blown up to tiny little pieces.

Clint shivered, waking up from his gloomy thoughts, when an electric jolt of pain flashed through him. The young nurse who'd been treating his stump froze, her hazel eyes widening. "Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Clint shook his head and refused to look at her. It didn't make any difference what she did to him, really. He almost said as much but didn't. He didn't really feel like talking these days.

He didn't know how long passed, at least the nurse already moved on to what was left of his other leg. She was just finishing up when her colleague appeared, announcing that there was an emergency. The nurse left after a quick apology. He didn't have to look at her, he heard the pity in her voice and it was more than enough.

Shadows fell. One TV-program changed to another. Some ridiculous soap-opera began but he had no way of getting his hands on the remote that'd been left to the other side of the room. He took a deep breath that hurt, then turned his head. All of a sudden his mind was eerily focused.

The nurse had forgotten a pair of scissors to the table beside his bed. They were right there. Well within his reach.

Clint stared at them for a very long time. Unsure what, exactly, he was planning on doing. Someone came with food he had no desire to eat before he could make up his mind.

Clint continued to stare at the ceiling. He didn't let himself fall asleep. If he did he might've dreamt of running.

It wasn't a surprise that the Avengers' official psychiatrist was called in after that incident. Dr. Sarah Harris could've as well ran at a wall of bricks. The "I can't" Clint uttered was easily one of the most heartbreaking things she'd ever heard.

And no matter how hard she tried, she wasn't able to coax him into saying anything else.

When she left the room she found the Avengers and Laura from the hallway. It took great skill to hide her surprise when she noticed that Natasha allowed Laura to hold her hand for support. She took a deep breath. "I'm glad that you called me. He needs all the help he can get right now." In truth, Sarah wasn't sure if any amount of therapy would be enough. But she had to try.

She wasn't going to give up on that stubborn idiot without a fight, because the Clint Barton she knew never gave up, either.

Laura gulped and wiped her eyes. She seemed exhausted. "When I… When I first saw him… I couldn't recognize him." A one more tear rolled. "Sometimes I'm…" She cleared her throat and looked away, ashamed. "Sometimes I'm still not sure if that's really Clint."

"It is." Sarah sounded far more certain than she felt. She was glad. She held a small pause, letting the people in front of her pull themselves together. "I'm not going to give up on him, I promise. But right now he needs a moment to rest. In the meantime I'd like to have a chat with all of you."

Eventually Clint did fall asleep. He dreamt of fire. Of flames licking his skin, of a whole building crashing down on him. He dreamt of a black, shapeless monster that crawled across the floor with a sneer, and tore off both his legs while he watched.

Clint woke up to his own scream. Someone was holding his hand, he was too out of it to figure out who, and he clung to the touch like it was his lifeline. Then it disappeared, and medical professionals were there with the drugs. It didn't matter how loudly, desperately, he begged them to leave him alone, how many times he told them that he didn't want to sleep. Perhaps his speech wasn't even comprehensible. Whatever it was they gave him kicked in far too quickly.

At least he didn't have any more dreams.

Yet again Clint had no idea how much time passed by. One late evening Wanda was in the room, sleeping soundly, while a frowning doctor was looking at his patient files from a portable laptop. Something had been bugging Clint for a couple of days, since fool's hope began to stir its head from the sea of despair he'd been drowning into. He made sure that Wanda was asleep before opening his mouth. "I've been thinking… Even for someone in my… situation… There are prosthetics, right?"

The doctor sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. And it felt like the world had been blowing up to pieces again. "Mr. Barton, I'm truly sorry, but… With the kind of nerve-damage you have… options…"

No more walking… Running… No more being an Avenger… The life he had…

There were a lot more empty words. Clint ignored them all. He lay there in his bed, all there was still left of him. Stared at the ceiling. And felt like he'd been sinking into an ice-cold black hole.

Clint was under the influence of a lot of medication. Most of the time he wondered if he was awake at all. Often he wished he wasn't.

One afternoon Natasha was there when they brought in his lunch. She watched him push away the tray. And decided that she'd seen enough. "So that's your master plan?" Her tone was openly mocking. "You're going to starve yourself to death?"

Clint didn't answer. Instead he focused on the crack once more. It was a beautiful shape, really. Almost like a star.

"You were lucky enough to survive what 51 other people didn't. You got hurt, badly. But you're still alive, and we're not going to let you throw it away."

Clint turned his head. The crack didn't look beautiful anymore. Outside the sky was gray, miserable. "What if I don't want to be?"

Frost seemed to fill the room. Then Natasha slammed something against his chest, barely missing his injuries. "The next time you let something like that out of your mouth… I'm going to make you repeat the words to them."

Clint turned his head with a frown. Grabbed whatever it was she gave him. It was a picture of all his three kids.

"They don't care how many legs, arms and heads you have." Natasha's voice was sharper than any blade. "You're their dad. They love you. They need you. No matter how you look." Only a careful ear caught how close to losing control over her emotions she was. "And I'm their godmom. Honestly, I have no clue what the hell that's supposed to mean. But I do know that I'm not going to let their dad slip away from them. I'm not going to let them lose you."

Clint didn't know how much there was left of him for his family to get back. Emotionally, more than physically. How much of a dad could he be, like this?

Natasha left at some point. He had no idea if she tried to talk to him before that. He kept staring at the picture of his children through the night, and none of the nurses visiting his room tried to take it away. Maybe they saw something he didn't.

A couple of days later Clint had a phone pressed against his ear. Laura sat right there beside him, holding his hand. It gave him enough courage to utter the words. "Dr. Harrish, hi. I, ah…" He swallowed thickly. "I think I'm ready for that session, now."

TBC

A/N: GOSH…! Poor, poor Clint. So much healing to be done. And the road ahead… It's NOT going to be easy. I'm afraid that we've only scratched the surface. (winces)

BUT, even so… Would you like to read some more? Or should I just delete this and pretend that this never existed…?

In any case, THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading! And who knows. Maybe I'll see ya again.

Take care!