Since Tony was accustomed to thunder storms heralding the arrival of their friendly neighbourhood demi-God, he was vaguely amused by the irony when Thor arrived on a perfectly sunny day. Seriously, there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. Granted, he wasn't beaming – or whatever it was that he did – down from Asgard, instead simply travelling from the S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters as he'd insisted upon being present for any interrogation of his brother. He was probably afraid they would accidentally maim the guy or something. It was a valid concern. Tony was watching from the top floor window as the speck flying towards them grew bigger and bigger. He had been contemplating where to set up the temporary archery range and, having done so, how to get Barton to use it instead of throwing butter knives at his wall. He had then realised that it would require him giving the agent a weapon (namely his bow) with which to shoot. He wasn't overly fond of that idea. Also, S.H.I.E.L.D had prohibited it. Not that that would usually stop him, but in this case it seemed a reasonable request. Don't let the potentially disturbed agent near any weaponry, particularly a bow. He could see the logic. He remembered all too well the absolute chaos the archer had caused when under Loki's enthrallment. People just shouldn't be able to do those things with such a simple and archaic weapon. Not that anyone, Nick Fury included, actually believed that Barton would attempt to harm anybody. It was just a precaution. Company policy. Maybe he'd let him keep the butter knives (Barton had found their hiding place and stolen them back) if he promised not to throw them at the walls. Although, extracting a verbal promise might prove a difficult task. Perhaps he'd get him to write it down.

'Greetings, Tony Stark!' Thor landed on the balcony, sending wind billowing into the glass doors.

Tony waved at him from inside and then opened the door so he could come in.

'No bags?' He raised an eyebrow.

'I possess not these 'bags' you speak of,' Thor looked somewhat ridiculous standing in Tony's very modern mansion dressed like he was at a renaissance fair.

'But you do own other clothes?' Tony appraised him somewhat mockingly. 'Maybe this, in another colour?'

'You disapprove of my garb?' Thor looked confused. He shifted his shoulders, chainmail rattling as he did so.

'Oh perish the thought,' Tony swept the back of his hand across his forehead. 'I just want to know if you wear it all the time.' He raised an eyebrow.

'Verily, it is so.' Thor confirmed.

'Okay,' Tony stroked his chin, ignoring the language choice – for now, though in the future he planned to corrupt the demi-God's vocabulary. 'Let me ask you this: when you go to bed, do you wear that?'

'I do not.' Thor snorted as if the notion was ridiculous.

'I knew it.' He threw his hands in the air. 'What do you wear? Fluffy pajamas with little hammers? A toga?'

'I know not of this 'toga' you speak of.' Thor looked at him strangely, and then added 'Pray tell me the meaning of 'pajamas'.'

'They're like a…thing we lesser mortals wear to bed,' Tony said eloquently. 'They can be…fun, quirky.'

'I fear I misunderstand,' Thor shook his head. He looked perplexed. 'It is Earth culture to cover oneself upon retiring to ones chambers?'

'You guys don't do that?'

Thor shook his head.

'Uh huh…well, you can keep your sheets. Call it a gift.'

'Many thanks, my friend.' Thor looked, frankly, chuffed. It was as if he'd given the guy some kind of precious object. 'I shall endeavour to repay you.'

'No need,' Tony waved him off. 'I'm just that awesome.'

…

He never missed.

5 knives. 1 target.

4 knives. 1 target.

3 knives. 1 target.

2 knives. 1 target.

1 knife. 1 target.

He never missed.

If only he had.

…

Bruce was relaxing with a book in Tony's remarkably extensive library – library, he was in heaven – when he heard it. THUMP. It reverberated around the mansion, appearing to have originated from somewhere above him. He raised an eyebrow, but continued reading. No doubt it was Tony working on some crazy experiment - although, Tony's lab was downstairs... He shrugged. The book was interesting. The mansion was filled with superheros. If it was a problem, someone else would sort it out. KA-THUMP. This time was louder than the last, and accompanied by a softer slam. Bruce pursed his lips, and read on. When the next KA-THUMP was accompanied by an equally loud SMASHand what he guessed was a quiet shatter, he supposed he'd better investigate into why someone was very obviously trying to tear the place apart. Sometimes it baffled him that he was around people capable of doing that with their bare hands. It didn't matter that he could, as well, it was still just plain surreal. He closed the book and set it aside. Damn, his armchair was just so comfortable. He really didn't want to investigate.

'STEVE?' Tony's voice floated up from his workshop.

Bruce sighed.

'YES, TONY?' Steve, for whatever unfathomable reason, never failed to indulge Tony's little bouts of yelling. Bruce had decided that Tony was right, Steve did like yelling. In fact, Steve loved yelling. What was even stranger was just how well the two were getting on now that there was no need for their ego's to clash over who was in charge. It would have been okay if Steve's considerably more responsible nature had served as a good influence on Tony. That would have been great, actually. Of course what had happened was that Tony was steadily corrupting the somewhat naive man.

'IS THAT YOU?'

'NO. I THINK IT'S AGENT BARTON.'

'WHAT'S HE DOING?'

'I DON'T KNOW – THE DOOR'S LOCKED.'

Bruce took a deep breath and sighed once again. He swung his legs off of the chair and stood up. He supposed he would have to investigate, since all Tony and Steve seemed inclined to do was yell about it. As for Thor, he had no idea where the demi-God even was. He'd seen him a grand total of once that day, just after he'd arrived and was proclaiming to all that would listen that the 'Great Tony Stark' had gifted him some bed sheets. Tony had basked in the praise before leaning in to whisper – after he'd noticed Bruce raising his eyebrow - that the demi-God slept 'as nature intended'.

'TELL JARVIS TO OPEN IT.'

'OKAY,' there was blessed silence for a few seconds, and then '…IT DIDN'T WORK.'

'WHY NOT?'

'HOW SHOULD I KNOW? IT'S YOUR DOOR.'

'Fair point,' Tony conceded quietly, raising an eyebrow at Bruce as they met up on the stairs. 'Hey Banner, you hear that commotion?'

'You mean there's someone on the planet who didn't?' Bruce asked drily.

They climbed the stairs to the second floor, Bruce lagging slightly behind Tony who'd elected to jog. Steve was standing awkwardly by the door, a perplexed expression on his face. Inside the room, it was silent…until KER-SMASH.

'What in that name of all that is holy, is that man doing to my house?' Tony knocked loudly on the door, his expression one of curiosity rather than anger. 'Barton? What the hell are you up to in there?'

There was, predictably, no response. There were also no smashing, banging, or crashing noises for which Tony was grateful.

'Agent Barton?' Steve tried. 'We're just a little worried, can you tell us what's going on?'

There was still no response. In the absolute silence Bruce couldn't even make out sounds that would suggest the man was even in the room.

'Maybe he isn't there,' Steve concluded.

'Or maybe he's ignoring us,' Tony countered. 'Jarvis, manual override on Barton's lock please.'

'Sir, it seems that Agent Barton has barricaded the door.'

'Of course he has,' Tony muttered. He snapped his fingers. 'Jarvis, check the video footage. What's he up to?'

'Agent Barton disabled the cameras the first night he was here, sir.' Jarvis responded apologetically.

'And to think I refrained from looking at the footage to respect his privacy,' Tony shook his head, his expression wounded. 'Okay Steve, time to kick the door down.'

'Are you sure?' Steve asked hesitantly.

'Barton?' Tony banged once on the door. 'If you don't answer in the next, oh, 3.5 seconds Steve is going to kick your – well, actually, my - door down. Better stand back, Banner.'

Bruce moved away, wisely deciding that, for once, Tony was right. Tony counted the seconds in an exaggerated fashion and then shrugged when no response was forthcoming.

'Do it.' He pointed to Steve, then to the door.

'…if you're sure.' Steve said uncertainly. He waved at Tony to get back and then positioned himself to kick it down. There was a slight scratching sound.

'Wait!' Bruce saw the tiny slip of white that emerged from underneath the door. He snatched it from the ground and opened it. Four words were printed in neat script exactly in the centre.

I'm fine.

Go away.

Tony read it over his shoulder and scowled.

'Sure, you might be fine. But tell me, are my walls fine? Are they, Barton?'

…

He wished they would just leave.

He wished he hadn't smashed the window.

Or the mirror.

Or knocked the chest of draws over and stabbed it until his fingers were raw with blisters and dotted with splinters.

He wished he had missed.

All those years training to be the best marksman in the world.

All those years, spending hours upon hours on the range. Shooting until his fingers were bloody, until he could barely unclench his hands they'd been hanging on for so long.

All those years perfecting his aim.

He had never thought his skills would be turned against him.

Never dreamt that he would one day regret he'd ever touched the bow.

He never missed.

Even now.

…

It was 12 A.M and Tony Stark was wide awake. He wasn't drinking, he wasn't working. He was on a stakeout. He was hiding in the kitchen, watching and waiting. He knew Barton was wandering around at night, and he wanted to know why. So, naturally, he had recruited Steve and Thor to help him. He'd attempted to recruit Banner, but the scientist had point blank refused to help him 'childishly' stalk the agent despite his protests that here was nothing remotely childish about stalking. It was serious business. So while Tony was in the kitchen, Steve was hidden in the hallway and Thor was outside on the roof. Just in case Barton was leaving the mansion.

'Tony Stark?' Thor whispered into the communication link.

'It's just Tony, and what?' Tony whispered back.

'The Hawk hast propelled himself from thy window.' Thor said, using the codename Tony had assigned their target. So it was obvious, sue him.

'Those windows don't open,' Tony frowned. 'He is just determined to destroy my house, isn't he?'

'That explains the smashing,' Steve agreed. 'Are we going to follow him?'

'You bet,' Tony confirmed.

…

He was going to go stir crazy if he had to spend one more second in that room. He felt like the walls were closing in on him. The drawn face tacked to his wall, though mutilated beyond recognition, seemed to be smiling manically. It was laughing at him. Mocking him. He whirled, the knife flowing from his hand in one fluid motion. It lodged in the wall, exactly where he knew the figure's left eye socket had used to be. He hadn't even really looked that time. His hands were shaking. Lack of sleep. Lack of food. A nervous breakdown, maybe. He knew the textbook symptoms, and how to recognise them in another agent. It wasn't so hard to apply it to himself. He had been eating, though. A little – enough to stay alive. Sleep, however, eluded him. He knew you could only last about three days without sleep. After that the hallucinations started as the brain shut down. In severe cases, people died. He'd been going about a week, and the only sleep he'd gotten involved knocking himself out with filched sleep medication. Stark's kitchen was surprisingly easy to navigate. He regretted tearing the room apart, if only because it was a poor way to repay the man's hospitality. It hadn't helped, either. Nothing did. A steady breeze was blowing in through the shattered window, sending the fragments of glass shuffling across the floor. Some of it was piling around his bare feet. He didn't bother to try to avoid it when he started walking. The pain helped. It was something else to focus on. Something that didn't tear him apart from the inside. He pulled the knife he'd embedded in the wall and tucked it into his belt – he didn't like being weapon-less, even if his hand-to-hand was more than sufficient to protect himself. Moving to stand by the window he closed his eyes, feeling the wind against his face. He could smell the brine in the air, the salty tang a pleasant assault on his senses. He inched forward until his toes curled over the edge. The jagged remnants of the glass were sharp, but he ignored them. He crouched down and vaulted lightly over the edge, swinging down to touch his feet against the wall. He kept a hold of the window, careful to keep his fingers clear of the broken glass. He wouldn't be making the climb back up if his hands were cut to shreds. His shoulders shook, his muscles protesting – a reminder that if he wanted to maintain peak physical fitness, he couldn't afford to continue neglecting his body. It was time he found some other form of atonement.

It was a fairly long drop to the ground so he pressed close to the wall and searched for a foothold with his toes.

…

'Guy's a god damn monkey.' Tony breathed.

Slightly to his right, and also flat on his stomach hiding under a bush, Steve tended to agree. The two had sprinted stealthily from the house and had arrived just in time to see the agent flip off of the wall and tuck into a roll that ended up with him rising gracefully to his feet and looking as if he hadn't just defied gravity in some small way. Steve's leg was itchy but he refrained from scratching it, knowing that the movement would alert Barton to their presence. He had dirt and earth pressing into his shirt and pants, some kind of rock under his hip, and he was fairly certain something was creeping along his back.

'Tony?' He whispered, trying to make the sound as small as possible.

Tony turned to look at him, but didn't respond verbally. Instead he pointed at Barton, held a finger to his lips, and then raised an eyebrow.

'Is there a spider on my back?' Steve mouthed.

He saw Tony's eye flicker behind him and back, releasing a sigh of relief when the other man shook his head slowly. He didn't like spiders. He wouldn't say he was scared, just that he had a healthy respect for them. Also, they gave him the heebie jeebies. The crawling sensation intensified and he jerked his leg on impulse. The bushes rustled. He gulped. Tony glared. Barton looked straight at them or, rather, through them. His eyes raked over the bushes, but he didn't seem to see them doing their best to look like nothing more than a not at all suspicious bush. After a few seconds he turned around and jogged off at a fairly fast pace. Steve moved to get up but Tony pushed him down and shook his head. He left his hand there until they couldn't see the agent, and then removed it as he crawled out from under the bush. Steve followed suit and then thoroughly checked his back for creepy crawlies. It wasn't an easy task, but thankfully he found none.

'If you're looking for the alien mind control chip – I'm pretty sure they put those in the back of the neck.' Tony suggested helpfully.

'What?' Steve blinked, pausing in his search. Sometimes – scratch that, most of the time – he just didn't understand the things the other man said. Usually because he was either making some apparently hilarious, obscure, reference to something Steve had been frozen for, or speaking words that Steve didn't even know how to pronounce let alone spell. He'd caught up pretty fast with the new slang and he thought he had a decent grasp of the words most people used, but Tony would continually stump him with things like quark and carbontetrafluoride – which Bruce had explained to him was some kind of 'free radical' or something. He thought it sounded far too awkward to use in the everyday sentence. Hey, did you see that carbontetrafluoride? He blew up that building, man, it sure was swell! Then again, maybe he'd misunderstood. It wouldn't be the first time.

'Never mind,' Tony pulled something out of his pocket and fiddled with it.

'What's that?' It looked like a screen with a blinking light on it.

'Tracker,' Tony grinned like the Cheshire Cat. 'I stuck a few on Barton's knives – figured he'd carry them around with him.'

Steve frowned.

'So we didn't need to hide under that bush. We actually could have waited until he was out of sight and then followed that thing.'

'Probably,' Tony agreed and then clapped him on the shoulder. 'But wasn't this so much more fun. Thor? Time to come down, buddy.'

'Do you not want me to scout from the air?'

'Nu-uh, Barton'll see you a mile away. This mission's incognito. Alright, let's assume codenames from now on. I'll be Captain Awesome, you,' he pointed at Steve. 'Can be Old-timer, and…' he clicked his fingers. 'I got it – Thor, you're Hammerhead.'

…

They were following him. He knew because he had heard them in the bushes. Had seen them – they were almost impossible to miss. As for Thor; he stuck out like a sore thumb almost anywhere, but particularly when he was standing supposedly surreptitiously on an otherwise abandoned roof. Their stealth skills were shocking. Non-existent was the better word – it wasn't exactly a surprising revelation. He had to ditch them. He didn't think it would prove problematic. When, half an hour later, he still hadn't managed to shake them he figured something was afoot. He suspected the knife.

…

'Captain Awesome, this is Hammerhead. I report no visual on the target, over.' Thor said dutifully, parroting the words Tony had drilled into his head earlier. The whole sentence – for that matter, the whole exercise – struck him as unusual and strange, but he was happy to be involved in what Tony had assured him was not only a 'team-building' exercise but also a time-honoured Earth tradition. Who was he to judge what was considered normal on another planet? He supposed it was not unlike the games he had used to play as a child back in Asgard. Usually, though, those games had involved hunting actual targets that they would then proceed to kill. And then roast and eat while they drank themselves under the table. He was a little disappointed that there wouldn't be a 'kill' at the end of their hunt, but Tony had assured him that drinking was most certainly not off the table. Whatever that meant.

The tracker had lead them to the place where their quarry was supposedly holed up. The problem was; he didn't seem to be there. Thor had flown up into one of the trees (at Tony's insistence, since Barton would certainly see him if he just hovered in the air) to try and see if he could 'get a visual' on the man. He couldn't. He was either in hiding, or simply not there. Thor feared the latter, though Tony insisted his tracker was infallible.

'Copy that Hammerhead,' Tony responded. 'Drop down to ground level and proceed to rendezvous point, over.' A series of colourful words followed his statement.

Thor dropped to the ground, landing next to Steve.

'He cannot have disabled my tracker,' Tony scowled at his device. 'I refuse to believe it.'

'Uh Tony,' Steve disappeared into the bushes and then re-emerged with something silver gleaming from between his fingers. 'I don't think he disabled it exactly.'

…

It was 4 A.M and someone was crashing around in the kitchen. The first time Bruce had heard the distant clattering, having been rudely woken from a fairly deep REM sleep, he had simply rolled over and shoved his pillow over his head. Clenching his eyes shut and clamping his hands over his ears, he could almost pretend it wasn't actually happening. After five minutes, it was getting a little harder to ignore. Possibly because it seemed to be getting louder by the minute. He was going to maim whoever it was. Slowly and painfully, which wasn't the Hulk's usual M.O – at least the slowly part, painfully was pretty much a given – but would garner him a greater deal of satisfaction then simply slamming his fist into their head. Not that that wasn't, in itself, deeply satisfying.

He was pretty sure he was in hell. Or damn near close to it, and if he had to get up and sort out whatever mess was currently being formed, then someone was going to die. He wasn't picky, but he preferred it to be whoever was currently ranking number 1 on his list of dead men walking. The noise continued. CLASH, clatter, BANG. He wrenched the pillow off of his head and hurled it across the room. Fumbling out of the covers, he slid off of the bed and stomped over to the door, yanking it open with nearly enough force to dislodge it, and then slammed it for good measure. Steve poked his head out of the room nearest to him, his expression befuddled.

'Wha's going on?' He yawned midway through his sentence.

Bruce didn't answer. He wasn't sure he was capable of opening his mouth and not yelling at the top of his lungs. Poor Steve didn't deserve that. Instead he stormed past the baffled man and proceeded to treat each and every step on the staircase as if it had personally offended him. Only one of them dared to creak in protest. He reached the kitchen, and paused briefly to take it in. It was a total mess.

There was shattered glass on the floor. A few cups were rolling around, and what looked suspiciously like a frying pan was dangling precariously from the fan. Thor looked to have passed out on top of the dining table, or had potentially slipped on the large puddle of what looked like beer and smashed into it. He could make out a dent that confirmed that theory. The demi-God was snoring uproariously and muttering words Bruce didn't care to make out. Tony was slouched against the cupboard, very obviously drunk, and staring intently at his hands as if they held the secrets of the universe. Bruce wasn't sure if he was angry anymore or just plain disturbed. A movement to his left caught his eye and he looked up to catch Barton in the process of leaping off from where he had been perched on the door, obviously watching the early morning events unfold. The agent froze in the act, one foot hanging down and the other folded under him, with his arms bracing himself against the wall. Bruce stared at him. It was way too early for that crap. Barton stared back, his expression unreadable yet there was something vaguely vulnerable in his gaze. Bruce sighed, dropped his head, and massaged his temples. When he looked up, the other man was gone. Thor was still dead to the world. Tony was having what appeared to be a rather intense argument with a spoon over something distantly related to quantum mechanics , and Steve had appeared at the bottom of the stairs and was looking, wide-eyed, from Tony to Thor as if trying to comprehend it through his sleep-muddled brain.

'This is not my problem,' Bruce muttered. He turned around and headed back up the stairs, brushing past Steve as he did so. He would maim someone at a more reasonable hour. That someone, he decided, would be Tony Stark. He was, after all, the source of the insanity.

…

Natasha Romanoff arrived later that day. Her reaction to the state of the kitchen and, to a lesser extent, the entire lower floor of the mansion was priceless. Granted, Tony recognised that one needed a microscope or even a telescope to actually see the minute expression that flickered across her face, but he had a very vivid imagination. Not to mention a very intense hangover. So it was, theoretically, possible that he had made it up. He was still going to tell everyone that the world's greatest poker face had shown actual emotion. Even if said emotion was mostly distaste and disgust and a lot more words starting with dis and ending with something that implied negativity. Which, come to think of it, was her entire emotional range in a very neat little nutshell. Was she saying something? His neck ached. There was an apple in his hands…why was there…? Thinking hurt. Maybe he'd just go back to sleep and…

…

She'd expected to find chaos, sure. It was practically a given when Tony Stark was within ten miles of anyone who would indulge his crazy. Or anything, for that matter. What she had hoped, rather foolishly it seemed, was that Banner would somehow have been able to temper the insanity. She couldn't have been more wrong. His presence seemed to have had absolutely no effect. Stark was passed out against the fridge and she briefly considered smashing some pots and pans together but instead selected an apple from the remarkably untouched fruit basket and pegged it at him. It thumped him on the forehead and then rolled into his lap. He seemed to stir briefly, muttering something she couldn't make out, and then lapsing back into unconsciousness. She hoped he enjoyed it, because when he woke up she was going to make his life hell.

'You don't want to know,' a voice said from behind her. Banner. She tensed just that little bit.

'I really don't,' she agreed. She turned to face him and winced inwardly. 'Long night?'

Bruce gave her a wry smile and stuck his hand in his pocket to search for his glasses.

'Let's just say we're lucky the other guy was feeling remarkably tired last night.'

'And now?' She raised an eyebrow at the wicked smirk that slid onto his face.

'Early morning stress relief,' he chuckled. 'You'll probably hear about it later.'

She noticed he was keeping his distance.

'Is there somewhere we can talk?' She eyed Thor, snoring on the dining table. 'Somewhere quiet?'

…

Bruce took her to the library. It was his own personal sanctuary in what was turning out to be, by far, the craziest living situation he'd ever been involved in. He'd actually been surprised when he'd discovered it; he hadn't exactly pegged Tony for the type. When he'd asked, the genius had shrugged and said he 'liked the look of them'. It was an incredibly blasé attitude to what had turned out to be a fairly extensive and well-stocked collection. Bruce figured it was a cover-up. Tony probably liked books – maybe even read them – but thought it would ruin his carefully constructed image. As if he wasn't capable of doing that in a thousand other ways. Still, he wasn't complaining. He took a seat in his favourite armchair, settling in with a sigh of satisfaction, and just about closed his eyes before he realised that Agent Romanoff was with him. He watched her as she seemed to consider where, and if, she wanted to sit down. She was always unnerved in his presence. Always just that little bit uncomfortable, more on guard with him that with any one of the others. He supposed he deserved it – having nearly killed her and all. She sat down on the nearby couch and, to her credit, didn't sit as far away as she possibly could.

'How are things with Barton?' She got straight to the point.

'Practically non-existent,' he watched for her reaction. He didn't really get one. 'He never leaves the room during the day, sometimes during the night but we rarely see him.' He didn't mention his brief encounter with the man early that morning; something told him Barton wouldn't appreciate it. It was the first time – that he knew of – that the agent had actively sought them out - even if he hadn't exactly made his presence known. It was maybe a little step in the right direction.

She sighed and dropped her gaze. They were both silent for a while.

'Coulson was his mentor,' she said quietly. 'Clint had no-one when he came to S.H.I.E.L.D. Even I don't know how close they really were.'

'You feel that way about Barton,' Bruce remarked astutely.

She looked visibly startled, which was rare for her. He couldn't help the smug sense of satisfaction. She didn't respond, but her silence was telling in itself. Finally she nodded ever so slightly.

'We're not supposed to form attachments in S.H.I.E.L.D.' She looked away, her eyes glazed with nostalgia. 'People die all the time but, it's impossible. I trust him completely with my life – I had to. Trust,' she looked him dead in the eyes. 'Trust can't exist between strangers.'

'People will always affect our lives.' Bruce admitted, 'no matter how hard we try to push them away. I should know.' He had spent years distancing himself because around him, people got hurt. It had proven to be impossible. Here he was, again, with a bunch of people he was – god damn it – beginning to care about. It figured that that even the top-secret spy types would be unable to resist the human connection.

'I'm concerned.' She smoothly moved the conversation back to Barton, 'because I've never seen him like this. His usual method of coping is to hit the archery range until he literally passes out with the bow in his hands. He's never blocked me out like this.' An expression too rapid for him to identify flickered across her face.

'You think that something else is causing it,' Bruce guessed.

She nodded. 'I just wish I knew what.'

…

He was making things worse. He hadn't meant to. He just hadn't been able to face them. Not after what he had done. It was his fault. Coulson, and countless others, were dead because of him. There was nothing he could do to make it better. No form of atonement that could wipe away his guilt. He couldn't face them and he certainly couldn't face Natasha. He knew he was hurting her, though she wouldn't admit it. He couldn't face any of them, but he would have to. To see the blame in their eyes, to know they knew he was at fault. He deserved that, and more.

…

A/N: Thanks for the fantastic reviews guys! You're far too nice to me I'm glad to hear I got them in character though. Thor is a difficult bugger to write! At this point I don't know if there will be Natasha/Clint. I'm just going to see where the story goes, but if there is it will most likely not be explicit at all. Probably more like read between the lines type stuff. Please let me know if I'm going overboard on the angst, too. I sometimes do that.