A/N: This… chapter basically typed itself. Because this story REALLY wanted to come out. So, here we are! (grins) FIRST, though…

DISCLAIMER: I own ABSOLUTELY NOTHING but a bunch of DVDs. If only I had the kind of money to hire Renner…! (sighs) Also, praises and kudos to the genius who behind the story's profile-picture.

WARNINGS: Some language (sorry, Steve, but this is… young Clint we're dealing with…!), adult themes, CLAURA, general weirdness… OI, stop stomping each other on your way out, it's rude!

THIS STORY IDEA was first introduced in my 'SOS Hawkeye' collection's tale 'Clint Barton's Ghost Story' BUT this story works perfectly and makes sense even if you haven't read that.

Awkay, before I turn into a chicken… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

The Long Flight Home

Stolen Years

Clint Barton had always been very, very good at getting himself into a trouble. And judging by the hammering headache that greeted him as he began to wake up, it seemed like he'd succeeded in finding trouble yet again. He fought a war to focus properly.

He remembered heading to a mission, Phil Coulson's voice a steady and grounding constant in his ear. Only… he reached his destination too late. The five hostages he was supposed to rescue lay dead on the floor. He'd checked four of them to find no hope when there was what sounded like an explosion. And everything transformed to pure agony.

"Wah…?" He wasn't aware that the barely audible sound erupted from him. His pounding head was buzzing, seeking, struggling to grasp…

The place around him didn't smell like a hospital. And the bed he lay in was far too comfortable to be from one of those hateful places. He also definitely wasn't in one of S.H.I.E.L.D's medical rooms. So where was he? Did get captured? That chilling thought was quickly proven wrong when he tugged lightly and discovered that his wrists hadn't been restrained.

How about that, maybe he got lucky for once.

He wasn't going to make the mistake of relaxing, though. Not when he could tell that he wasn't alone. With a ridiculous amount of effort he wrestled his eyes halfway open. Everything was a little blurry but at least he could distinguish something. Needing to figure things out, he moved his head as much as he dared to.

The room was fancy, full of the best medical supplies that seemed to come from a sci-fi movie or the future. And indeed, there were people sleeping close to his bed. Two redhaired women, the younger curled up so that her head lay next to his stomach and the older facing the door, as though keeping watch. A man sleeping with a frown on his face looked so much like Captain America, Coulson's number one hero, that it was ridiculous. Finally his gaze landed on a brunette in a nurse's uniform. She slept the closest to him, her head resting on his chest and one hand holding his tightly. Which instantly registered to him as bizarre. Why would…?

Movement in the corner of his eye caught all his attention. It took longer than it should've before he recognized one of the country's most famous and richest people. The man's grin seemed far more honest than those from pictures and interviews. "Hey, Feathers. Did you have a good nap?"

Clint felt his eyebrows furrow while his heartrate sped up. Tony wasn't exactly known to be the 'at arm's length' type of a guy. But why was the man approaching him like they knew each other? They'd never even met. And what was Tony Stark doing there, anyway?

The billionaire's grin faded. For some ridiculous reason it made him feel guilty. "Clint?"

"What…?" He wanted to sit. Needed to sit. He didn't feel comfortable with appearing vulnerable in front of strangers. As soon as he moved a violent quake of pain passed by all of him, harsh enough to make him halt. "What… are you doing here? You… working with S.H.I.E.L.D, now?" A reasonable enough assumption. Someone with Tony's wallet would've been a great ally for the organization. Surely even Fury had come to realize as much.

Tony, however, seemed to be close to panicking properly. What was wrong? "Barton, what are you talking about?"

Clint rubbed his face roughly with one hand, aching to make the puzzle pieces click together. He absolutely hated feeling so out of control, and he despised not knowing what was going on even more. "'s right, Tony Stark does charity work… This is charity work…" That had to be it. Fury could have a real silver tongue when the situation called for it. But how badly did he get injured to need Stark's help? That thought was far too terrifying to be examined more closely, at least before his head was clearer. Instead he nodded towards the rest of the people. What were they doing in the room? He didn't want strangers around him, especially when he was at his most vulnerable. "These people… They work for you?" The nurse probably did, at least.

Tony seemed unable to produce a single word. Clint decided that he couldn't handle the bizarre situation any longer. With nearly desperate yanks he began to try and unfasten himself from all the machinery. "… gotta get the hell out of here …" His head hurt, badly, as did pretty much all of him. And the whole situation demanded him to leave, as quickly as he could. In pain, confused, scared, overwhelmed and frustrated, he glanced towards the billionaire. "Thanks, for… whatever you did for me… But… Coulson… Phil Coulson… They told you that he's my handler, right? Call him. Tell him that I've gotta go." He needed someone around who felt familiar, as quickly as possible. He needed to leave.

With all the inner turmoil he hadn't noticed that the others were waking up, too. Until the hand still holding his tightened, and he felt someone watching him. Suddenly hyper aware of the fact that he was touched by a stranger and far from comfortable with it, he pulled his hand free and turned his head.

What he encountered was the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen. Although he'd never seen it before it was so familiar that… "Hey, honey. Welcome back."

What…?!

"Clint?"

The brand-new voice caused him to notice that he was the center of very much unwanted attention. Everyone in the room was staring at him with varying degrees of shock, grief and something close to betrayal. They looked like someone had just struck them hard, and he didn't have to be a mind-reader to know how badly they were expecting him to recognize them. How much they needed him to prove them that this was all just a silly little passing thing, that everything would be okay.

The weight of their expectations and panic, along with his own rapidly snowballing sheer terror, was too much. And suddenly he couldn't utter a sound. Couldn't even breathe.

Finally someone decided to blow a whistle on the nightmarish situation. A voice he definitely hadn't heard before spoke out sharply. "I know that you've all missed him, but right now you're causing him a great deal of agitation. I need you to step outside until he and you all have calmed down a little."

The gang didn't seem to have any intention of obeying. Tony swallowed loudly. Were the man's eyes moist, or was it a trick caused by light? "He, ah… He has no idea who we are. Any of us."

The arrival, a beautiful woman in her late thirties with clearly visible Asian heritage, nodded slowly. Somehow the calm look in her eyes helped him feel more grounded, made it easier to breathe. "Alright. Now, would you please give us a few moments?" She went on at the practically palpable hesitation. "I'll take a good care of him, I promise."

The strangers obeyed, despite it seeming to be far harder than it should've been. The woman who'd been holding his hand was the last to go. The expression on her unhealthily pale face suggested that someone had just torn her heart from her chest. Guilt formed a hard and heavy ball of iron in the pit of his stomach, and if there was any oxygen in his lungs he would've howled out that he was sorry. Even if he had no clue why, exactly, he felt so sorry.

Staring at the door which closed sharply after the group he wanted to scream. Run away. Most of all, though, he wanted someone to explain what happened to him, and what the hell was going on.

"Clint." The doctor's voice managed to catch his attention, barely. "I'm Dr. Ranya Winter. We've never met before with you awake. But I understood that you also don't remember the people who just left?"

Clint was in no condition to shake his head or nod. He gritted his teeth painfully tightly. "Get me…" His words were nothing but a wheeze. He gulped laboriously. "… the hell out of here."

Dr. Winter sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that just yet. I need you to calm down, so we can try to figure out a few things. Alright?" Satisfied with whatever she saw in his, without a doubt, hostile gaze, the doctor went on. "You… were injured badly, and you've been in a coma for a few months." She searched his eyes. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Clint didn't want to talk about memories. Or anything. Frustration and still lingering fear seemed to wrap a rope around his neck. He nodded jerkily towards the door, trying to shake off the feeling. "That guy… He looked just like Captain America. Coulson's gonna freak when he gets here." He wanted to focus on things that he knew. On things that didn't make his aching skull feel like it was about to explode.

Dr. Winter didn't smile. "That was Captain America." Which didn't make any sense at all to him. She seemed to notice as much and frowned. "Coulson? Did you… mean Phil Coulson?" He hated it when people looked at him like the doctor was watching him just then. It made him feel like he was a circus freak again. "Clint… What year do you think it is?"

Somehow that felt like the most dangerous question of all. One that froze absolutely all of Clint, including his thoughts. One he had no intention of answering, and made as much evident with a cold, hard glare.

The doctor, however, wasn't the type who gave in easily. She did her best to offer a small, reassuring smile. "Okay, let's try again. How old do you imagine you are?"

He didn't think he'd ever been quite this scared in his life, and loathed the thought of being so vulnerable in front of this woman, in a place he didn't know. If he'd clench his fists any tighter nails would probably cut through skin. What was it with all these questions? "I… don't know how long I was out. But… I'll turn twenty-one next January."

Dr. Winter sighed, visibly bracing herself. "Clint… You're… a little older than that." She gave him a few moments, which was nowhere near enough time to brace oneself against a bomb going off. "It's February 2016."

Clint's line of vision began to tunnel and spin dangerously, and he felt like the whole world was shaking and crumbling around him.

Whatever it was that happened to him, cost him over twenty years of his life, over half of his whole goddamned life.

TBC

A/N: Oh boy… Poor Clint – poor everyone! This is gonna be a bit of a nightmare. (winces)

SOOOOO… Would you guys like to read more? Or is this story DOA? PLEASE, do let me know! Hearing from you ALWAYS makes my day.

In any case, THANK YOU, so much, for reading! Who knows. Maybe I'll see you around later?

Take care!