Disclaimer: For entertainment purposes only.

A/n: Thank you to the gorgeous ladies at The Beta Branch for their feedback and edits, and also to the amazing and sensational stars_inthe_sky for her mad beta skills. Remaining mistakes are all me. ;)

Timelines for these are a mixed bag, all post-Avengers but to varying degrees. Enjoy!

I.

Despite the fact that the Tower had not one but several working, high-tech dishwashers, Bruce was up at one in the morning doing the dishes by hand in the generously-sized kitchen sink. He didn't do this all the time, though, whenever he did, Tony always made a face and told him to stop wasting his time. But Bruce liked the repetitive motion of cleaning the various objects and the quiet while he worked, as the team casually made themselves scarce (though at this time of night, no one was around anyway).

Tonight, he had intended to turn into bed quite a while ago and do the dishes first thing in the morning before the others were up, but after reading quietly for a while, he hadn't felt at all tired.

Bruce turned over a colorful plate to scrub at the back before giving it a quick rinse and setting it to dry on the rack to his right. After several rounds of poker that night, the rest of the team had dispersed to their own corners of the Tower. Well, those that were here, anyway; Thor was off in Asgard, Tony had business in Washington for the next few days, and Clint was…somewhere. Bruce wasn't actually sure about that one.

As if summoned by Bruce's thoughts alone, though, the archer appeared from around the corner and joined Bruce in the kitchen. His arms and face were spotted with bruises and healing cuts, but he nodded a greeting at Bruce, seemingly unaffected by his visible injuries.

"Don't let Tony see you doing that," Clint said, heading for the fridge to grab a beer.

Bruce chuckled. "He's, uh, in Washington until next week, so I won't have to be lectured about refusing to use what's been provided." He set another plate on the rack with the rest.

Wordlessly, Clint retrieved a towel from one of the drawers and began drying the dishes. Bruce wanted to ask him how his mission (or wherever he was the past few days) had gone and if he was all right, but the expression on Clint's face was closed-off and hard. The physicist settled for shooting him a concerned sideways look.

Clint frowned, hearing the question on Bruce's tongue without it being asked. "I'm fine," he said shortly.

Bruce didn't press further; instead, he simply slipped back into the routine of washing.

Neither of them spoke for a good fifteen minutes after that. Bruce continued washing; Clint dried and put things away. The longer they worked, the more Bruce could tell Clint was conflicted, silently debating something, and Bruce waited him out. Sure enough, when there was just a handful of silverware left to clean, Clint broke the silence.

"They look at me like I might explode," he said, and his voice was tight and pained. He didn't bother to hide it, nor the stormy look in his bright blue eyes. "Like they think I might still have him in me."

Bruce nodded. S.H.I.E.L.D.

Clint hadn't spoke of it much (nor had Natasha—or Steve, who apparently now worked for S.H.I.E.L.D, too), but from the handful of debriefings Bruce had attended, the level of mistrust that surrounded Clint ever since the Loki incident was evident. It didn't come from Fury or Hill, and some of Clint's fellow agents seemed relieved to have him back, but there was a wary edge to many of the others. It wasn't hard to imagine that their thoughts were centered on the agents Clint had killed under Loki's influence.

Clint himself was excellent at hiding how he felt, but Bruce could guess how terrible it must be for Clint to try to recover from what happened. He knew the feeling awfully well.

"And I can't…" Clint clenched his jaw and raked his fingers through his hair, his other hand clutching the towel. "What I remember, I…" He shook his head, and didn't bother finishing his sentence.

"Did the therapist tell you it would get better?" asked Bruce softly.

The archer exhaled, "Yeah."

Bruce hesitated before replying, but Clint wasn't the type who would want the truth sugar-coated, even if it stung. Besides, being stared at like he was a grenade that could blow at any second? Bruce was an expert on what that felt like.

"It probably won't," said Bruce. He met the archer's gaze. "The dreams and fragments don't always go away. They might, um—they might never stop looking at you like that. But you'll survive. You will keep going and survive." He returned to scrubbing the silverware in the sink, adding, "It's not that it gets better. It's that you get better at living with it."

For a moment, Bruce wondered if he'd misread the situation—maybe Clint had been looking for comfort instead of brutal honesty—and he opened his mouth to apologize. Instead, when he looked up, he watched Clint's shoulders sag with relief. The archer nodded slowly in understanding.

"Thank you," he said earnestly.

They barely spoke as they finished up the dishes, but the silence was comfortable.