Chapter Two

The nightmare was as vivid as every other night. Tasha stood in front of him, every fibre in her suit, every individual hair picked out by his hyper-sensitive dream vision. That pissed Clint right off; if he was going to be terrorised almost to the point of breaking down, he'd appreciate it if it wasn't in full fucking HD quality.

He was aware of himself moving backwards, blocking a jab aimed for his throat. His bow spun out of his hands. It fell to the floor with a dull clatter. Then he was beside her, anticipating the flow of her movements, as familiar to him as his own. A knife appeared in his hand, glinting brightly in the dim light. Tasha dodged the first swipe, locked her arms with his to prevent him going for another. He grabbed a handful of her hair, disengaging a moment later as she sank her teeth into his forearm. The pain registered, but in the dream it was unimportant, insignificant. He knew what came next.

Somehow he got lucky, or Natasha's technique slipped. It varied from night to night. The end result was always the same. As the Widow lunged for the knife Clint wove around her, spinning on his heel and sinking the blade into her back, below her shoulder blades. Inside his own brain he was screaming.

She went rigid with a low cry. Clint withdrew the knife, now dripping red, and let her drop to the floor. She raised herself up onto her elbows and turned to look at him, her eyes wide.

Then Thor's brother was behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Clint could sense him smile. He wanted nothing more than to rip the grin from his face.

Go to her, he whispered in the archer's ear.

And Clint did, and he stood over her as the blood drained from her body, dripping through the lattice of the walkway. Loki waited till she was pale and unmoving before releasing him from the spell, so he could fall to his knees beside her and try desperately to staunch the wound. He was covered in blood, Tasha's blood, Coulson's blood, blood of his workmates. There was nothing he could do. She was already gone.

Loki had him round the throat before he could tear out his eyes. I thank you for your service, the bastard said, and threw him into the open air.

Clint woke gasping, his fingers digging into his palms painfully. He lay where he was for a moment, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering, trying to forget the image of Tasha bleeding out in his arms.

"Fucking asshole," he breathed. He rolled onto his side and sat up, disentangling himself from the sheets. He'd fallen off the bed and hit the side table, if the shattered remains of his lamp were anything to judge by. Something pricked sharply against his leg; a shard of the light globe. What a mess.

Clint sighed and brought his knees up, folding his arms and burying his head in them. If he didn't get a good night's sleep soon he'd do something dangerous. Well, more dangerous than usual.

"Are you alright?"

He started, looking for the source of the voice. Bruce stood in the doorway, still dressed in jeans and a sweater. He hadn't even heard the door slide open. The archer forced a smile. "Yeah. Bizarre bondage dream. Nothing I can't handle." He stood up and started piling the sheets back onto the bed. Maybe he could sneak down to the med bay and steal some pills – something powerful enough to knock him out for at least a day. If that didn't work, there was always Tony's stash of complimentary hotel alcohol.

"Still feeling guilty, huh?"

Clint's head jerked back around to stare at the scientist. Bruce was watching him steadily.

"Guess so," Clint frowned, turning his back to collect the broken pieces of the lamp, hoping Bruce would take it as his cue to leave. Jagged glass shards cut into the undersides of his bare feet. He liked the scientist, but he liked his privacy even more. Years of working for SHIELD has made sure of that.

"Natasha knows you looked at the file," Bruce said.

Clint froze, reaching for another shard. "How the hell would she know that? How the hell would you know that?"

Bruce shrugged, still watching him thoughtfully. "Tony told us."

"Stark? Backstabbing son of a bitch. Never trust a man with a beard that pointy, that's my new motto." He dumped the shards on the table and turned back to face Bruce. "So why did he– wait, us? He told the whole lot of you?"

"He was concerned."

"Tony Stark, concerned, about me? Pull the other one." Clint's eyes had hardened. "What does he want?"

"Don't be an idiot, Barton. He was warning us. We were all worried for a bit there. You seemed a little…self-destructive. You were almost suicidal."

"I'm always almost suicidal."

"No, you're always stupid. There's a difference. Tony thought it best for us to handle the problem, rather than get Fury involved, and to do that he figured we needed to know."

"That's not his call," Clint shot back. "That was private. And anyway, it's not like you guys are ganging up on Tony for his self-destructive behaviour. He's a bloody hypocrite."

"You shouldn't have looked at the report," Bruce continued, ignoring him. "What did it accomplish?"

"Don't start with that crap, Banner. I got enough of it from the psych team. They were very nice about it, very rational, very professional. But nothing they said changed the fact that I killed twenty-seven SHIELD agents. Twenty-seven, Bruce. That's what the file said, under my name. There's no erasing that, not from my mind, not from anyone else's. People look at me differently, now, you know? They go out of their way to avoid me. I walk down the corridor and I can see it in their eyes, that I'm that one guy who killed Jacob, or that operative who got possessed and helped almost take over the world. And I agree with that look in their eyes, because it's true. I knew some of those agents. And, you know, it's a bit suspicious, isn't it? All Tasha did was hit me a few times in the head and suddenly I'm a free man again? Suddenly the problem disappears? Doesn't sound right."

Bruce shook his head. "You can't really believe that."

"I don't know," he cried. "I can't trust my own mind anymore. That– bastard, was in there for so long, and I haven't got a clue what he fucked with. He knew– knowseverything, Bruce. Everything about me. I could feel him sifting through my memories." He ran a hand through his hair. He remembered the sensation, the horrible realisation that this psychopath was in control of his brain. Unmade, he'd told Natasha. Unmade and broken. "And Coulson–"

"You cannot blame yourself for Coulson. That was Loki's doing, not yours."

"But I do. I have to. In my position would you honestly be able to absolve yourself of his death? Of anyone's death? It doesn't matter that I didn't personally stab him; I would just have easily have done it if Loki had ordered me to. I should've been there to stop him."

"Don't torment yourself with hypotheticals. There was nothing you could have done," Bruce said.

"I should've found something! I should've killed myself first!" Clint growled in frustration and kicked the side table as hard as he could. He heard something snap in his foot. "Fuck, ow." He dropped down on the bed, suddenly exhausted, and put his head in his hands. He was so tired. "I'm sorry, Bruce," he said. "I'm just a little bit broken at the moment."

The scientist didn't respond for so long that Clint thought he'd left. Then–

"I know how you feel."

Clint looked at him sideways.

"The other guy…" Bruce paused, then walked over and sat down on the mattress beside him. "I've hurt people I love before. The guilt–" The scientist broke off and lowered his gaze. "It tears you apart. We've been through it before, Clint. All of us have. That's the only reason Tony did it." He smiled. "We're a team, remember?"

Clint laughed humourlessly and let himself flop back onto the bed. "Yeah, well, this explains why Natasha was watching me so closely. Goddamn Stark."

"Everything okay in here?"

Clint sat up abruptly. Now Steve was standing at the door, a horrible sympathetic look on his face. Sly bastard must have heard everything. "Oh my God," Clint yelled, grabbing a pillow and flinging it at him. The Captain dodged it easily. "Get the whole team in here, why not. Family meeting up in Hawkeye's room, crisis brewing! Come on guys, time to invade Barton's privacy. Avengers fucking assemble!"

Steve raised his hands and retreated into the hall, stooping to throw the pillow back. It landed directly where Clint had picked it up from. "I'm leaving, I'm leaving!"

Once the Captain's footsteps had receded Bruce sighed and got to his feet. "Well, I better get going too. Try and get some sleep, Clint. You're up early in the morning. Rookie training; should be fun."

"Don't remind me," Clint groaned.

The scientist chuckled. "Better than being grounded for six years." He clapped Clint on the shoulder and turned to leave.

Clint hesitated. The guy had just listened to him rambling about his problems for a good fifteen minutes, and given him more closure than the whole of the psych team combined. Clint was an unrefined asshole, but he wasn't ungrateful. What was the sort of thing you said after something like that? Ah, fuck it. "Wait, Bruce," he blurted. "I, uh…I'm pretty shit at this touchy-feely business, but I…thanks. For listening. Maybe I won't kill Stark after all."

That rare, lopsided smile flashed across the scientist's face. "You're welcome, Barton. I mean it. Any time you want to talk, you know where to find me."

Clint waited till the doors had slid shut behind the scientist before burying himself in the sheets again. The others teased him about his "nest". The reality was that the idea quite appealed to him. With his view obscured by the safety of the cocoon and his mind slightly eased, it didn't take him long to fall back to sleep.

He got at least an hour's undisturbed rest before the nightmares returned.