Clint has been in prison before.

To be honest, this holding facility is a hell of a lot nicer than some of the other cells he's been trapped in. He lies on his back, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the dull ceiling. They've taken his weapons and his hearing aids, so everything seems muted—he hums so he can feel the vibrations of his own throat.

The prison walls are a padded, so the sound would be muted even If he had his aids. It is cold, but not overly damp, which is surprising, considering they're under the ocean. Maybe that's why he feels slightly nauseous.

The absence of sound is disconcerting, but is nothing he has not experienced before. Although the other times he had been locked up and unable to hear, Nat had always been there to alert him if people were coming. Being alone is an entirely different scenario. Sitting up, he moves so his back is to the wall and he can look out into the expanse of the dark prison halls. No one is going to sneak up on him; he will not be startled by some idiot guard. He's Hawkeye, not scared, deaf Clint Barton trapped in a cage underwater. He is, oddly, probably the oldest one here. He's certainly been an Avenger the longest. He has to protect the others, somehow.

The others are locked up in the cells beside him. He knows that Wanda is on his left, and they'd put her in a straight jacket, those monsters. She's just a kid.

"Hey," Clint calls, tilting his head to the right. "We're going to be alright, you know that?"

He can't tell if she responds. He keeps talking. "I've been in prison before. I've always gotten out. Nat and me, we've been in much worse places then this." He looks around at the padded walls. To be honest, this cell does not seem particularly confining. Standing, Clint walks to the bars and leans against the glass. "Cap is going to get us out," he says. "He won't leave us in here."

A few years ago, Clint would have said the same thing about Tony. For all his bravado, Tony Stark cares about his friends. At least, Clint had believed that.

Pressing his forehead against the cold glass he says. "We're going to be fine," he whispers, and he wonders if he's even talk to Wanda anymore. "We're going to be fine."

Even without his aids, Clint can tell something is wrong. The air is heavy with tension; Clint can almost taste it. The ground vibrates under his boots. Many people are running. Fast. Cautiously, he edges to the glass of his cell, hands instinctively curling into fists.

Someone runs past him, a blur of black and red. Clint flinches back, stepping back into a defensive stance.

A fist raps against the glass. He narrows his eyes.

Anyone home? The hand signs against the glass.

Clint grins.

Natasha is inside his cell in thirty seconds. She stands at his open door, hands on hips. Her hair is wild, and there is blood on her cheek. She is strong and deadly and beautiful. Natasha does not smile; in fact she seems worried. She glances over her shoulder, probably at a noise; her hand strays to her gun at her hip.

"What are you doing here?" Clint demands.

Natasha rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to him. I had to make sure you were alright, she signs, stepping close to inspect him. They didn't hurt you?

"You know I've had worse," he says aloud, catching her hands in his. "You're hurt." There is a shadow of a bruise under her right eyes, and she is favoring her left leg.

Natasha pulls away from him and strides towards the door, beckoning with a hand. Clint sighs and follows. They do not have time for questions now. He will interrogate her later.

Steve Rogers is standing outside of Wanda's cell with Falcon. He nods to Clint. Sam grins at him. Prison it seems, has not dampened the Falcon's spirits.

"What are you doing here, Cap?" Clint hisses. "Do you want too—"

Steve gestures sharply with his hand. "I don't leave my friends in prison," he says, speaking slowly so Clint can read his lips. "Come on."

Wanda is huddled in the corner when they enter. Clint sees with alarm that she's been crying; her eyes are rimmed with red and he can see dried tears on her cheeks. She smiles when she sees them.

Steve is not smiling. "They put you in a straight jacket?" The captain is visibly shaking with rage. Natasha puts her hand on his arm.

Wanda nods. "I'm dangerous, remember?"

"We're all dangerous," Clint snaps. He bends down and begins to undo the straps about her arms and legs. Wanda is small. He forgets, sometimes, that she's really just a kid. "I'm going to kill Tony," he says to her. "He should never have done this to you."

Wanda bites her lip and looks away. Clint knows that she thinks she deserves this, that this is punishment for the deaths she has caused, for her brother. He wants to argue the point, but they do not have time. He slides her arm free and lifts the girl to her feet. "You alright?" It's a stupid question.

Wanda takes a deep, shuddering breath, and nods. "Yeah."

Natasha grabs his arm and pulls. They need to leave.

"Do we have a way out?" Clint asks Steve.

The soldier nods. He tosses Clint a gun.

They run.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Steve, for the last time," Clint groans. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."

They are sitting in the medical ward of T'Challa's….safe house? Clint is calling it a safehouse. It is more like a safe military complex, but house feels like a more apt description. Steve had replaced Clint's hearing aids and the new devices are problematic. They do not feel comfortable in his ear and filter noise differently. It is a bit like wearing an ill-fitting comm for SHIELD; his ears buzz with static. These aids are not tuned to his ears; they register every sound. He flinches at the audible scrape his boots make on the floor, the sharp click of the door closing behind them, the metallic clatter of medical equipment. Voices are loud and layered. It is difficult to distinguish between the hum of the ceiling fan and the throb of Steve's words when all of the sounds are assaulting his ears simultaneously.

The Captain looks at him, brow furrowed. "Clint—"

Clint resists the urge to cover his ears. Steve is speaking loudly, for his benefit, but the words ring blows in his head. "Steve. I'm fine. Go talk to Wanda. Or bother Nat. I'm fine. "

There must be something in his voice, because the soldier nods. "Alright," he says. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah," Clint mutters. He's aching and sore and wants to both sleep and run far, far away at the same time. "Thanks, Cap."

The soldier nods and slips from the room.

Gritting his teeth, Clint slides off the examination table. His boots strike the floor with a resounding crash. His hearing aids sing with static. Groaning, Clint spreads his arms out to steady himself and locks his jaw. Maybe if he will its, the room will stop spinning and his head will stop aching. He is an Avenger, after all. He knows the God of Thunder. That has to count for something right?

T'Challa's medical ward is extensive, with several open rooms and a trained and trusted staff. It is clean and smells of soap and sterile hospital sheets. Clint stumbles down the halls without a real direction in mind. He wants to go into a dark room and sleep for hours, but the thought of being alone in another confined space is more unsettling then he expected. He's been locked up before, and this had been relatively nice treatment. What is the matter with him?

Well his head is splitting open, for a start. Clint stops outside an open room and leans against the door frame, focusing on his breathing. Maybe he should just take the damn aides out.

"Barton?"

Natasha's voice. Quiet, low. Clint looks up. She is sitting alone at one of the examination tables, swinging her legs. She is no longer wearing her gear, and has changed into a loose t-shirt and yoga pants. Her left pant leg is pushed up and a hastily wrapped bandage is secure around her ankle. Her cheek is still bleeding.

"Why don't you have a medical team swarming around you?" Clint growls, stumbling into the room.

His partner smirks. "Come on. Cap knows better then that. I told him I would take care of it."

"But you haven't," he says, gesturing to her leg.

She shakes her head. "I wanted to see if you were okay. And I couldn't until T'Challa's team were done with you."

"I'm fine." It is an automatic response.

She raises an eyebrow, but does not push. "Steve give you new aids?"

Clint nods, moving to sit beside her on the table. The wax paper of the examination table crackles under his hands. He breathes out in a sharp hiss when his ears ring in response.

Natasha touches his arm. Sorry, she signs.

Clint shrugs. There is really nothing to say. "Do you want me to help you with that?" he asks, indicating her bloodied cheek.

She ignores the question. "Laura and the kids are worried about you."

Clint snorts softly, and leans down, opening one of the storage drawers underneath the examination table. He digs around until he finds alcohol wipes and a case of bandages. "I hope to God you didn't tell them I was in an ocean prison."

"No, I told them Hill called you out to Budapest. What do you take me for, Barton?"

Clint laughs, straightening up. He waves the medical supplies within her line of vision. "May I?"

Natasha rolls her eyes, but lifts her chin, a silent signal that she is accepting treatment. Clint shifts closer, cringing at the crackle of the paper on the table, and opens an alcohol wipe. "This will sting," he says. Natasha is tense beside him, and he puts a hand on her shoulder, massaging gently. "Relax, Nat," he whispers. "This is me, remember?"

She glares at him. "I'm relaxed."

"You're a terrible liar," Clint murmurs, tilting her head lightly to the side with a finger so he can better inspect the cut on her cheek. It isn't deep; she won't need stiches.

Sighing, Clint swabs the alcohol bad against Natasha's cheek, pressing lightly. She hisses.

"Sorry," he whispers, reaching for a Band-Aid. "I'm trying to be gentle."

"I hate fighting on opposite sides," Natasha says suddenly.

Clint lowers his hand and looks at her. This is his friend as few have ever seen her; vulnerable and hurt and furious. He can see scars along her neck and countless faded gashes and burns along her arms. She is Black Widow. Many people only know her as Black Widow. He is privileged enough to know her as Natasha.

"I know," he says. He doesn't know what else he is supposed to say.

She looks up at him. "I never want to do that again."

"We were both trying to do the right thing," he says, pressing the bandage to her cheek. She catches at his hand.

"We're still friends, right?"

Clint smirks, bending down to press a quick kiss to her wild hair. She smells like soap and rust and Nat and home. "Yeah. Of course we are." Turning away, he slides the box of bandages into their proper place on a shelf above the small sink. "There," he says, turning on the water and washing his hands. "Good as new." The water seems to crash like a waterfall into the porcelain sink. Clint locks his jaw as his ears ring.

"Seriously, Barton," Natasha says from her perch on the examination table, "I hate this."

"You're being overly sentimental, Black Widow," Clint teases, drying his hands and walking over to her. "What's wrong?" He tries to make his voice gentle. Natasha does not need to be teased right now. She is desperately asking to be open and honest with him. He does not particularly feel in a joking mood, either.

"We've never really belonged anywhere," she says softly, "the two of us. Killers, assassins, spies. SHIELD took us in. SHIELD fell apart. But the Avengers…" she shakes her head. "We belonged with each other. Somehow. And now we lost that. And fighting you…."

"You know I would never actually kill you, right?" Clint says, sitting down beside her. He bumps her lightly with his shoulder. "You know me, Nat."

She rests her head against his shoulder. "I don't know what the world is going to be like now," she says.

"We were always a time bomb," Clint thinks of Banner, wherever he is. In a way, he is grateful that Thor and the Hulk had been spared this disaster. Banner would have probably sided with Tony and Clint does not want to find out what getting smashed by his green friend feels like. "We're too different, Natasha. We can't always work together."

"I didn't want this."

"Neither did I. I was retired, remember?"

She laughs, and he feels the vibrations of it through his entire body, a gentle thrill of joy. "You, retired? I didn't believe that for a second."

"Yeah," Clint sighs, "Laura didn't either." He wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. "I missed you."

"Yeah, "Natasha whispers. "You too." Her breaths are loud in his ear. He closes his eyes.

They sit like that for a long time, wrapped around each other. She takes his hand and finger spells into his palm: D-O-N-T G-O.

Clint smiles. N-E-V-E-R.

Clint leaves Natasha's rooms after an hour. She wants to sleep, and there is nothing more they can really say to each other. He expects that Natasha will probably stop by his room tomorrow to work through their problems with sparring, but right now she needs to be alone. Clint needs to call his wife. He needs to sleep. He needs to run. He does not know what he wants. So, he walks through the winding halls of T'Challa's complex. His ears are still ringing, but the headache is lessening as his body slowly learns to adjust to the onslaught of sensory information. Still, Clint keeps a hand on the wall to steady himself. He does not want to fall; that would be embarrassing.

"Clint." Steve is at the end of the hall, outside Wanda's room, presumably. The lights are off and the door is closed, so the girl is probably asleep.

Sighing, Clint walks over to his friend. "How's she doing?"

Steve shrugs. "She's sleeping. I didn't want to push her for to much information. She's scared."

Clint nods. "She's been through hell. I know what it's like to lose a brother."

Steve looks at him. He looks so young, Clint realizes suddenly. The façade of the strong captain gone; Steve Rogers looks as young as Wanda. "I know," he says. He claps Clint's shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Clint rolls his eyes. Steve Rogers. He cares so damn much. It's endearing, but mostly just annoying. "My ears are ringing," Clint says, because he owes it to the Captain to be honest. "These hearing aids aren't set to my needs so everything is a little….odd."

"I'm sorry," Steve says, and he is, he genuinely means it. "I didn't know."

"It's alright," Clint says, "you've had a lot on your mind." He glances down the hallway at the expense of empty rooms, "by the way, how's Barnes?"

Steve looks away. "Scared," he admits. "He doesn't trust himself."

"I know what that's like," Clint mutters, thinking of Loki's savage grin. "Do you want me to talk to him?'

Cap looks up at him with such dangerous hope, and Clint instantly regrets his question. "I mean, I don't k now if I'll be able to help, but—"

Steve nods, biting his lip. "It's worth a try. Would you…?"

Sighing, Clint steps down the hall. "Where's his room?"

The Winter Soldier is lying stretched out on a table in a room that reminds Clint of a prison. His wrists and ankles are bound with tight leather straps. The walls are a bland white so bright it hurts Clint's eyes. He looks to Steve.

"You tied him down?" He does not bother to hide his disgust.

Cap shrugs. "He insisted."

Jesus.

Steve walks around Clint to the edge of Buck's bed. "Hey, Buck," he says quietly. "Clint's here. I thought you two could talk. I'm going to untie you."

"I can defend myself," Clint quips, unsure of what else to say. "I promise."

The Winter Soldier—Bucky- lifts his head. His eyes are dark and furiously sad. "I'll try not to kill you." His lips quirk up into an almost smile.

Steve works at the buckles, the leather cracks and creaks. Clint flinches at the sharpness of the sound. His head throbs.

The Winter Soldier notices. Clint can't think of him as Bucky, not when he's seen what this man can do. That might be a problem.

"Do you have a concussion?" The Winter Soldier asks. He sounds genuinely concerned.

Clint grimaces and takes a few steps closer. If they're going to talk they shouldn't be on opposite sides of the room after all. "Nah," he says, "bad hearing aids."

Steve shoots him an apologetic look. "I am—"

"Stop apologizing, Rogers," Clint waves a hand. "You didn't know."

The Captain finishes with the restraints and steps back. The Winter Soldier sits up slowly, as if testing himself. Clint holds his breath.

"I'll leave you two alone," Steve says.

The Winter Soldier nods.

Steve shuts the door with a harsh click and they are alone.

Clint stares at the man before him for a long while. Where Steve still looks like a twenty year old kid from Brooklyn sometimes, this man looks his age. He does not look one hundred physically, to be sure, but there is an ancient savageness to his eyes. A sadness Clint has seen before in Natasha.

"Hi," Clint says. "I'm Clint."

The Winter Soldier smirks, rubbing at his real wrist. The restraints have left bruises. "I know who you are." He cocks his head. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

The grating of the metal arm combined with the deep tones of the Winter Soldier's voice is driving Clint insane. He tastes bile as his aids scream static in his ears. "I," he says, and then stops. "Fuck it," he snaps, and steps away from the Winter Soldier's bedside. He does not turn his back, he does not trust this man yet, but he steps sideways to the edge of the room and removes his aids.

Silence.

It's oddly comforting after a day of constant pain and static. Clint takes a deep breath and snaps his fingers by his right ear. Nothing but a faint vibration.

The Winter Soldier is watching him, head tilted like a dog, a faint smile on his lips. He raises non-metal arm. D-E-A-F? He signs, fingers flowing through the letters as easily as a non-hearing person's might.

Clint blinks. You know ASL? He signs.

The Winter Soldier nods. 30 Languages. He signs with no expression at all, indicating that this is not something he feels should be celebrated. A quick gesture with his chin to his arm. I-He hesitates, right hand pausing with the letters.

"It's hard with one arm," Clint supplies aloud. Even after all these years it is still strange to speak and not be able to hear his own voice. His lips vibrate with the sound though. "I can read lips."

The Winter Soldier nods again. "Why did Steve ask you to speak with me?"

"I've been mind controlled before," Clint says bluntly. He signs the words as well, finding comfort in the familiar language of speaking with his hands. "I killed people….I don't know how many. They won't tell me."

The Winter Soldier leans forward. "Less then me," his lips say. He signs sadness as if that is not evident in his expression. His eyes are haunted.

Clint shrugs. "Probably. That doesn't matter. I think Steve wanted me to tell you how I live with myself. To tell you that it's going to be fine. I can't do that." His throat tightens. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. I can't tell you that, he signs.

A hand brushes his arm. Clint flinches back, but the Winter Soldier is gentle. He taps Clint's shoulder to get his attention. He says, "Why?"

Because I don't know how to live with myself.

The man's brow furrows. "Are you—" He looks up suddenly, eyes widening. His lips form a name: Natalia.

Clint turns.

Natasha is leaning against the door frame. She still looks tired, but better then she had an hour before. "Steve told me you were here," she says to Clint, and steps into the room. She nods to the Winter Soldier. "Soldat," The Russian name looks harsh on her lips.

The Winter Soldier locks his jaw. "My name is Bucky."

"I know," Natasha says. She looks to Clint and signs, Why are you here?

He shrugs. He doesn't know anymore. Why had he thought that he would be any help to this broken soldier? How have their experiences been alike at all?

Natasha must see his doubt because she sits on the table beside the Winter Soldier and says, "we are all monsters, Bucky."

The Winter Soldier looks up at her, defiant, scared, furious. "Not like me."

"Yes," Clint says aloud. "Like you. We've killed people we did not want to kill. I tried to kill my best friend because Loki told me I had too."

Natasha's eyes burn into his back, but he does not meet her gaze. "We're all a little broken here, Bucky."

"What should I do?" Clint does not need to hear to see the emotion in the man's voice. The soldier is near tears. "I don't want to kill again."

"We'll help," Natasha says. "But you need to remember that this isn't your fault." She looks at Clint as she says the words. "This isn't your fault."

He takes a deep breath and signs back. Say it: this isn't your fault.

The Winter Soldier-Bucky-looks him in the eye. "This isn't my fault," his lips whisper. He signs, Sorry.

"Me too," Clint whispers. "Me too."

Natasha walks him back to his room. You should call Laura, she signs.

Clint sighs, tapping his right ear with a finger. "I won't be able to hear her."

"She's worried about you," Natasha snaps, pushing him into the dark room and flicking on the light. T'Challa had provided them with lush accommodations. There is a comfortable bed, a night stand, and an attached bathroom with a shower.

Clint whistles. "Better then prison," he says.

Natasha rolls her eyes. We are not in prison. Call your wife. She signs the last words with sharp, clear intent, handing him his phone.

Clint catches at her wrist. "Stay with me? The kids will want to see you."

Natasha hesitates for a fraction of a second before she nods, expression softening. "Okay."

She sits down beside him and taps the phone over his shoulder, pulling up the Facetime app.

Clint watches the call connect across the screen and grins when he sees Laura's furious expression.

Hi, he signs. We have a lot to talk about.