Early chapter! Woo hoo! As always, see end for any warnings.

When Clint came back to himself again, it felt like it had been a long time. He glanced around and saw a clock on the wall he'd not noticed the first time he'd woken up. 12:10. He made a note. He felt more real this time, more alive. He hurt, but not too bad, and his head was clear. He blinked a couple of times and realised that Phil was still there, sitting beside the bed.

"Hey."

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Better. Clearer. They stopped the heavy drugs?"

"They dialled right back on the painkillers, yes."

"So," Clint grinned, pulling off a pretty good impression of himself, "how am I?"

"You're doing alright." Phil smiled and put his hand over Clint's where it lay on the coverlet. "So far, no signs of infection. You're healing well."

"That's good." He shifted slightly, trying to take the pressure off. He was propped up on his side against a big pile of cushions, but his cracked (or broken) ribs hurt and his back screamed at the slightest touch.

"Are you hungry? I think they're bringing something in soon."

"12:30, precisely. Right?" Clint knew his partner's needs.

"Yes." Coulson flushed slightly and smiled. "So, hungry?"

"No."

"Still?" Phil frowned, and Clint turned away. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"I said I'm not hungry."

"Okay. You don't have to eat right now. But you should really try something." He reached up and ran his fingers through Clint's hair, not expecting the flinch he got. "Sorry."

"No. It's okay." But he watched Phil's hands carefully after that.

Tony retreated to his lab after Clint had freaked out. He knew what flashbacks were. He'd had his fair share. More than his fair share really. Was any share of flashbacks fair? Focus, Tony. Right. Clint. He shouldn't be having flashbacks. He was a ninja spy bad-ass assassin. And he definitely wasn't supposed to have flashbacks because of the billionaire playboy he lived with.

"Jarvis, put us in lockdown."

"Sir, are you sure that's wise?"

"I'm not letting anyone else see what Clint went through." He cued up the video on the screens. "Besides, I don't want to get interrupted again."

"But should you be watching it at all, sir?"

"Jarvis, don't take that tone with me. I need to know what he went through. It's my fault."

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, I didn't realise that you were the one who hired the Breaker. Shall I call the authorities?"

"I swear, you never used to be such a smartass. Cue the video."

Tony sat and watched. He watched Clint wake up in a cage and stay remarkably calm. He watched as freezing water pounded down, and Clint flinched. He watched the way the torturer treated Clint afterwards, the gentle touches, the tenderness. It was worse than the water in some ways. More intimate. Tony had to stop the video and look away.

He'd done this. When Hammer had first been arrested, and it had become clear exactly what he'd done (aiding and abetting a criminal, facilitating his escape, fraud and corporate theft), Tony had kept an eye on him and his employees. He'd been ready for vengeance. But when months, years, had passed with nothing, he'd stopped his watch. He'd grown complacent. And Clint had suffered for it.

"Sir?"

"Yeah, Jarvis?"

"Thor has returned from Asgard and is requesting entrance."

"Shit. He doesn't know about any of this."

"No, sir."

"Let him in and direct him to his quarters. I'll meet him there."

"Yes, sir."

Bruce wrapped his arms around Natasha. They were back in Natasha's quarters. It was sparsely decorated, utilitarian. All clean lines and black and reds. They usually spent their time in Bruce's quarters, but it was Natasha who was freaking out. She needed to feel safe.

"Seriously," he said, pressing his face into her hair. "Are you alright?"

"We don't do this. We don't talk about feelings."

"I know. But we could if you want to."

"No." She pushed him away and turned so they were facing each other. "But you can distract me if you like."

"I can do that," he smiled and led her over to the bed. It felt wrong, to be doing this while the mastermind behind the attack on Clint was still free and Clint was still in a hospital bed. Especially when Clint was part of the reason they were in a relationship rather than just being friends with benefits. But Natasha needed this. She loved Clint like a brother, but had no idea how to deal with those emotions. If Bruce could help her, in any way, then he would. No questions asked.

Steve sat in the living room on the common floor, his sketch book out, pencil flying across the paper. He was drawing Clint. Not Clint small and weak as they'd found him, but Clint strong and fierce as he usually was. Arms bare, bow drawn back, sunglasses on. There was a tilted smirk drawn on his face, and it just looked right. Steve sighed heavily and put the pad down in his lap. Okay, so the perspective was off slightly, and Clint's hands were slightly too angular, but he looked so much like himself, even on the paper.

The Clint in the infirmary was a far cry from the one on the page. The Clint in the infirmary was battered and broken and so obviously in pain. It bothered Steve. He saw people in the war (Bucky) who were sarcastic and brave, just like Clint, and then were taken and torn apart. But during the war, it made some sense. It was war after all. You expected these things. This was supposed to be the grand new world. Things like this weren't supposed to happen anymore.

Steve sighed. He knew how hard these things were to get over. He knew how people pretended and kept calm and carried on and then broke apart when you least expected it. He'd watched people he cared about clinging on to sanity with their finger tips. He wasn't sure he could do it again.

He threw his pad across the room and walked out. He hadn't destroyed a punching bag in hours.

Dr Rove frowned across his desk at the woman in front of him. She was easily in her sixties, maybe older, but she was stubborn and refused to give even an inch. You wouldn't expect it from looking at her. She was thin and frail looking, her hair grey, and she was wearing a pair of glasses that looked too big for her face.

"He's still refusing to eat. All the psycho-analysis in the world isn't going to help him if he starves to death in the meanwhile."

"No. Give him time. Right now, he needs control more than anything. He's had it taken away from him in the worst possible way."

"I understand that. But my job is to get his body healthy. And he isn't going to heal if he isn't taking in nutrients. Dehydration is a real issue right now as well."

"Please. You have him on an IV. I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday and I did go to medical school, it was a long time ago, but I did go."

"The IV is supposed to be a temporary measure, just to hydrate him and get some painkillers in."

"I know that. But it won't harm him to keep it in a bit longer. He probably has an excellent reason, even if it's only in his head, to refuse food. We need to respect that."

"Alright," Rove brushed his hand through his hair and sighed. "Alright. You're right. I just..."

"It frustrates you that he won't let you help him more than he has to."

"Hey," he smiled. "You're paid to analyse him, not me."

"I'm right then." She grinned at him, and he ducked his head in acknowledgement. "I'll talk to him tomorrow once he's had chance to settle in. We can talk again after that, see if we need to take any more drastic measures."

"I shall defer to your experience. But if he doesn't start eating soon..."

"I know, I know. I thought you'd be more worried about the lack of painkillers."

"Believe me, I am. But I haven't taken him off them entirely. I've got rid of the narcotics and left him with a mix of naproxen and ibuprofen."

"He asked for all painkillers to be removed."

"I know. But do you know how much pain he would be in? Besides, he seemed to be more worried about the side effects than the painkillers themselves. Non-narcotics mean that he won't be fuzzy headed and he won't become dependent. It isn't ideal, but it's the best possible solution."

"As long as he understands that he is on drugs."

"I'll explain it to him."

"Good." She smiled at him and then rummaged in her overlarge purse. She came out with a big ziplock bag of cookies. "Peanut butter, chocolate chip, or oatmeal?"

"Do you have a lamp in there as well?" He reached out a hand. "Chocolate chip, please."

"Here you go." She handed him one, and he crunched into it. "Good boy."

"Wait," he said through a mouthful of crumbs. "Are you conditioning me?"

"I believe strongly in positive reinforcement... and I'm a stress baker. My entire kitchen is full of these things. And a couple of pies. I just thought I'd share since we'd remedied our differences."

"Well, in that case..." he reached out and took a couple more cookies. "Thanks, Dr Lane."

"Please," she smiled, "call me, Margaret."

Warnings: Brief allusion to addiction, PTSD (Clint and Steve and kind of Tony), mention of torture.