CHAPTER ONE

Clint Barton shot up in bed, sweat beading on his bare chest. He gasped in a sharp breath as his mind pulled free of his subconscious, but his eyes remained closed for a short time longer as his quick, heavy breathing calmed. It took a few minutes, but, eventually, his nerves had relaxed enough to let him open his eyes and reassure himself that the nightmares were not real. Ever since he had been captured and tortured—or, as his captors called it: 'tested'—he had been tormented every night with dreams so startlingly realistic that he sometimes woke from deep sleep only to find himself as tired and exerted as if he had actually been fighting, running, or whatever the case might have been. His eyes had dark circles under them, and he felt drained nearly all the time. He did not know how much longer this could go on, but neither was he ready to face the others' questions, which he knew would come as soon as they discovered that he was still affected by what had been done to him at the abandoned warehouse where they had found him.

He had been missing for nearly two months, of which he had little or no memory, save needles, blood, and flashing screens displaying what he thought to be his own x-rays, when Natasha had found him strapped to a cot with so many cuts and bruises that she had almost thought him dead. He could not remember that, but she had told him all they knew, and he trusted her more than he trusted most people, though he had not liked the worry in her eyes when he had asked where he had been when he had disappeared. They seemed to have expected him to answer that question. He had been back to the warehouse multiple times, trying to revive his memory, but to no avail. The last he could remember was talking with Natasha after the Avengers' dinner together, subsequent to defeating Loki and his army.

That was a week before any of them had noticed he was missing, but that did not necessarily mean he had not been gone.

Clint pressed his forehead into his palm and made another futile effort to remember where he had been and what had happened. It had to be in his mind, somewhere just beyond reach. Sometimes, his nightmares would give him flashes of things that felt so familiar to his memories of the past two months that he could not help but wonder if the dreams that seemed so real were his brain's way of coping with the inability to fill in the blank spaces. The only other solution would be that his memories came back to him in his dreams, and, much as he hated to admit it, his nightmares did seem to match both his memories and his wounds. Already tired of thinking through the tormented two months, he pushed the thoughts back as best he could and forced himself out of bed.

He took a long shower to calm himself down before throwing on a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt, then went to the fridge of his apartment and got out a beer, taking it with him to the couch. He had just sat down and opened it when there was a knock on his door.

Getting to his feet once more, Clint walked to his door and opened it, leaving the chain to check who it was.

Natasha Romanoff held out a silver-wrapped egg and sausage biscuit and said, "Thought you might like breakfast."

"Yeah, thanks," he said, then unlocked the chain so she could come in.

He knew what she was going to ask before the words left her mouth: it was the same thing she had asked every time they had met since he had been back.

"So, how are you?" she inquired, her tone dead serious, as if he could mistake the context of the question.

He could not lie to her to save his life, but he hated seeming so weak. He shrugged, "Same."

He had known Natasha for so long that, where most people saw a blank expression, he could read her mood through her eyes, and right now, they were obviously worried. It had been a week and a half and nothing had changed. He guessed she had reason to be concerned for him, but he did not like it at all.

"You look exhausted; didn't you sleep at all?" she questioned, sitting beside him on the couch and observing him as she unwrapped her own breakfast.

"Doesn't help," he stated.

They were both silent until they had finished eating, and then Natasha met his eyes once more and said, "Can't you remember anything yet? Where you were, what you were doing, what they did?"

Clint shook his head and replied, "What I wonder is why the heck would they take me of all people. What's there to 'test'?"

Natasha did not reply, not knowing what to say to that. She knew that had to be the main thing eating at Clint was the not knowing. He had been through worse injuries than those he had suffered from when she had found him.

He looked at the floor and Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder, "We'll figure it out, it'll just take time."

"Yeah, well, we might not have much time. Who knows? I'm sure if it were Tony in my position, we'd know everything by now. He'd have his brain microchipped or something," his tone was somewhere between admiration and defeat.

"I doubt it," Natasha replied.

"Thanks for stopping by," Clint said, glancing over at her and giving the faintest hint of a smile.

She nodded, acknowledging, and stood to go, "I guess I'll see you around?"

He nodded and watched her go. They had been friends since they were teenagers and he had never noticed how much he completely trusted her until now. Since he had been back, everything he felt seemed more defined than before, as if it were closer to the surface. He blamed it on how tired he was, but it still felt strange.

All of the Avengers were supposed to meet at Stark Tower in an hour, and Clint would have liked nothing better but to fall asleep once more, but he felt the need to get in some target practice, since he had not even touched his bow since before...whatever had happened to him. So he went back to his room, picked up his bow and slung his quiver over his shoulder, and went to his spare apartment room, which he had turned into a training room. Within minutes, he was so focused on the practice—finding that, though still deadly accurate, the bow felt slightly unused in his calloused hands—that he forgot his exhaustion for a time.