A/N: So, here's the next part for you all! Word of warning, there's lots of implied and graphic violence in this scene, so if you don't like, don't say you weren't warned!

Phil had been half asleep up against the wall, his body violently shivering as the temperature outside continued to get colder and the throbbing in his head making him feel like he was constantly on the verge of being aggressively ill, when the door had reopened for the first time.

He wasn't entirely sure what to expect; the agonised noises and cries of pain he could vividly hear coming from behind the walls had gradually quietened down to nothing as time had pushed on, but he didn't know what that meant for Clint. He very quickly found out though, as the Agent was carelessly dragged back into their little cell and dumped on the floor in a heap.

The guy who'd brought him back leaned over Clint's body menacingly, and Phil couldn't miss the way that Clint's entire body froze and began to tremble as he whispered something into Clint's ear before stalking off and slamming the door shut behind them once more.

Phil's whole existence narrowed down to Clint's violently shaking form, the cuts and welts that covered his mottled skin, the further deformity of his already dislocated right ankle, and the distressing sound of Clint choking on the sobs that were forcibly clawing their way out of his throat. Clint's hands were still tightly handcuffed behind his back, and the thumb on his drawing hand was bent at a crooked angle, but at least Clint was no longer chained to the wall.

"Clint," Phil whispered softly, and Phil felt like his heart had seized in his chest when Clint dared to gaze at him, dried blood on his lips, his eyes blackened, and every wall the archer had ever constructed lying broken on the floor just like he was.

Clint looked for the entire world like a child, beaten and ruined, and as Phil tentatively reached out his free hand towards the Agent, trying not to startle Clint in any way, Clint immediately latched onto it.

Trying to restrain his gasps of pain as he slowly crawled across the hard, dusty floor, Clint twisted his body and finally slumped in a collapsed heap of exhaustion and agony over Phil's thigh, his face pressed tightly into the scratchy material of Phil's torn suit trousers as he began to near hyperventilate.

Phil's hand immediately came to rest on the back of Clint's neck, trying to guiltily ignore the flinch that Clint startled out of himself as he gently caressed the sweat dampened hairline, brushing his fingers softly through his Asset's hair; he tried to justify the intimacy of the contact by kidding himself into believing that he was checking for any head injuries that Clint could've received, but he knew it was really because the sight of Clint looking and sounding so vulnerable in his presence made his stomach knot.

Clint obviously didn't care; his face just buried deeper into Phil's leg as he tried to search for the safety and comfort that he desperately needed. There were a thousand and one questions vying for attention in Phil's mind – what did they do to you? Did you tell them anything? What did that man say to you? How can I make it better? – but Phil knew he couldn't ask them.

Clint's entire demeanour screamed for the silence, screamed for a few moments of peace before his life spiralled out of control again, and Phil couldn't bring himself to make Clint worse. Times like this, Phil couldn't help but hate that overwhelming SHIELD bred urge to burst into professionalism, to assess the situation and cultivate contingency plans for all case scenarios, even if it involved potentially abandoning an Agent.

Even the thought that Clint could be compromised was enough to make him sick; not because of the professional voice that recited rules and regulations for these sorts of things, but because this was Clint.

This was the irritating, childish, unprofessional archer who'd managed to worm his way into Phil's affections and care. The closed off, moody, difficult to handle Agent who was more than willing to let Phil see through the damage that had been inflicted. The friend who Phil couldn't help but admit made his day just that little bit more bearable with his jokes and presence. Even trying to think of it on the most distant levels as the handler of a competent, ranking Asset - desperately trying not to think of Clint as the haunted young man who'd given Phil his trust and his friendship despite the walls and barriers he erected to the rest of the world - Phil couldn't stand the idea that Clint was hurt in his protection.

The fact that Clint was willing to accept any sort of physical contact or comfort in his state was good enough for Phil, and he wasn't willing to break the fragile equilibrium that had fallen over them.

Clint never allowed anyone to touch him when he was hurt; medical and half of the senior Agents wisely stayed at arm's length until the archer had calmed down, and only Natasha had dared get into his personal space a couple of times before when he was injured and angry. That had ended in a black eye and Clint getting sedated from a distance of 12 feet by one of his own tranquiliser darts until medical could restrain him.

Having Clint draped across his legs, his face buried in Phil's thigh and Phil's hand running through his hair as Clint openly sobbed against him, was something that Phil definitely wasn't used to, but he wasn't going to turn his Asset away now because of how out of character it was.

If anything, it made him want to pull Clint into him further and shield him from anything else Cooper and his men could do to him.

Phil was almost desperately possessive of the young man; it had long been a running joke around HQ about how Phil had managed to tame the untameable, but seeing Clint like this was enough to make Phil want to kill.

Taking a deep breath and violently stamping down the satisfying thoughts of breaking every single one of their necks the second he was free, Phil continued his soothing ministrations against the crown of Clint's head, not saying anything when the Specialist moved in closer, winding his legs around Phil's knee and tightening his grip.

If Clint was being this clingy, Phil thought, then whatever they had done or said to him had obviously visibly gotten to him.

Hearing Clint's sobs break into deep, ragged breaths, his entire body trembling uncontrollably against Phil's, Phil could feel that overwhelming urge to ask Clint everything that was screaming to be asked, but even as the faintest consideration flitted through his mind, he could feel Clint's body tense once more.

"Please…" he choked brokenly almost as if he had heard Phil's thoughts, his voice muffled against Phil's leg. "Please don't… I can't…"

Phil's heart plummeted to his feet, and he had to blink to force back the tears that were threatening to build at the begging in his tone. Letting out a sigh, Phil stroked his hand softly down the side of Clint's head, encouraging him to cradle his face against Phil's hip as Phil reached down to start rubbing small circles into the top of his back.

It was almost like comforting a child, Phil thought sadly, but after everything that Clint had been through over the last couple of hours – hell, over his entire life – Phil wasn't, couldn't, begrudge him of such little forms of comfort.

His own voice soft and roughened with pain and emotion that Phil would normally never let anyone else hear, Phil let his hand stop its movements and just rest on Clint's back as he felt the younger man relax further into him.

"Don't worry, Clint. I won't."

After what felt like hours of silence and raspy breaths echoing around the room – Phil couldn't tell how long it had truly been – Clint had fallen into a fitful sleep, his grip around Phil never once wavering despite the fresh tears that fell down his face, and Phil, his thumb tracing patterns only he could see into the soft flesh of Clint's throat, finally succumbed to his own exhaustion.

It was sometime later when Phil was roughly woken with a start by the sound of Clint struggling, his hoarse screams of verbal abuse and pleading shaking Phil to the core as he was dragged back into reality.

He instantly recognised the same man who'd forcibly thrown Clint back into their cell roughly yanking Clint to his feet, the archer giving out a yelp of pain as he was forced to support himself on his dislocated ankle. When Clint tried to kick out, his limbs horribly uncoordinated and stiff, one of the larger of the group pulled a taser out of his pocket and pressed it hard against the edge of Clint's gunshot wound.

The blood-curdling cry that Clint let out as he slumped, near unconscious, into the arms of the man from before, was enough to make Phil feel sick as he watched Clint disappear once more. As the group turned into the corridor, the door frame was filled by the sight of Cooper, his arms folded across his chest and a sick smirk painted on his face.

"You trained him well, Coulson," his bland tone of his words almost made it seem like he was discussing the sports results, but Phil could hear the undercurrents beneath it, and it made him ache to get his hands on the bastard. "It's going to take a lot to make him sing. Don't worry though; we're very… thorough with our methods."

As the door slammed shut for the second time, Phil desperately hoped that his call for help before he'd been caught had gone through; he clung onto the hope that both Clint and he would soon be back at base, both of them being fussed over by the medics but otherwise alive and triumphant, but the longer the night drew on, the more that hope began to seem childish.

It became a disturbing routine after that first session; Clint would be gone for what seemed like forever – the length of time appeared to be indiscriminate depending on what torture Cooper and his men decided to try that time – before being thrown back at his feet in a broken heap.

The same man from before would continually accompany him, initially just whispering threats in Clint's ear until after the fourth time Clint was returned and it graduated into a full-on beating in front of Phil; sometimes, Phil would get a hit or two for his troubles, but more often than not, he was forced to watch helplessly, struggling violently against his bonds as his Asset was brutalised, bloodied and bruised before being left again to wait it out until the next time Cooper tried to get him to break.

Every time, Phil would pause until the door had been locked before extending his hand out again, letting Clint take whatever solace it was that he needed in the familiar, soothing touch.

Sometimes, Phil would whisper nonsensical nothings into the archer's ear as Clint sobbed; sometimes, Phil would sit in silence, a million and one questions demanding to be asked as he uncovered new, more stomach clenching injuries and disfigurements.

Clint never said a word.

After the eighth time, Clint didn't cry anymore either, all the fight draining out of him as he clung to Phil like his handler was the only thing he had left, his bloodshot and haunted eyes telling Phil everything that Clint couldn't verbalise. Phil let out a wavering sigh, remembering the feeling of Clint's hand intertwined with his own.

The last session had been rough; every finger on Clint's drawing hand had been snapped like twigs, blisters and deep burn marks crisscrossed his back from what like boiling hot water and capsicum, several careless stab wounds ran up his arms indicated attempts at drugging, and the skin on the sole of his left foot had practically been flayed off, the flesh ribboned and black.

Still, there was never any indication to say whether or not Clint had caved in; Phil, even though the professional in him disapproved vehemently, wouldn't have blamed Clint if he had. This had crossed the boundary from torture into a prolonged execution; not even Phil could've withstood that for as long as the Specialist had.

As it was, he knew Clint wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. His skin was slick with sweat, his eyes feverish and dead as he shook near uncontrollably all the time. The gunshot wound in his shoulder, half burned from the taser, was showing signs of infection if the angry colour and smell was anything to go by. Every deep breath was now followed by the hacking up of blood and agonising cramps that had the Agent whimpering in pain and threatening to break Phil's own fingers from the grip Clint had on them.

When he'd been returned the last time, Clint had fitted for what had to be close to a full five minutes. The human body just wasn't built to take this kind of abuse, especially one as fragile as Clint's was. Phil wasn't sure what else Cooper's men would be able to do to him, but he couldn't help but wince as he imagined the abundance of methods that they possible had at their disposal.

Taking a deep breath, Phil let it out steadily through gritted teeth as he tried to work his wrist free again. He'd been trying solidly for the last two sessions, figuring that he'd rather go down with a fight than just sit there waiting to be read his last rites and led to the gallows.

With one hand loose, it wasn't as difficult as it could've been, but Phil still wasn't close to succeeding; the stickiness of the blood and sweat dripping down his arm from his wrist was a testament to how much he'd tried.

It was possible, he'd deduced that much, but he just couldn't relax his hand enough to be able to slip it from the cuff. He'd dislocated his thumb on his last attempt, but even that didn't seem like it was going to help as he pulled down as hard as he could, feeling the muscles in his wrist pop and strain at the pressure.

Humourlessly deciding that he was going to make this a mandatory skill for every new recruit to learn, Phil let out a grunt as he felt the skin scratching against the rusted metal, but pushed through the pain.

After what felt like an eternity, Phil was able to manoeuvre the cuff down to the bottom joint of his thumb, but before he could go any further, he was thwarted by the arrival of Clint, and he tried not to curse at the state he was in.

The man holding him up gave Phil a lecherous smile, his lips dripping with malevolence as he pulled Clint across the room before dropping him unceremoniously across Phil's outstretched thighs, giving Phil a wink as he took a quick step back to avoid Phil's free hand connecting with his face.

"Now I know why you keep the slut around, Coulson," the guy's voice dropped maliciously, his mouth almost watering as it scanned slowly and methodically up Clint's nearly naked figure, and Phil saw red.

"What the hell did you bastards do to him?"

The man, to his credit, wasn't intimidated by Phil's anger; he just gave a chuckle the made Phil's skin crawl as he started walking back towards the door.

"Nothing that he didn't… beg for, isn't that right, Hawkeye? Don't worry though, we'll be back to finish what we started before you even miss us."

The moment the door was locked, Clint immediately became hysterical, unable to catch his breath as his body shook so violently that Phil was convinced he was fitting again; the sound of Clint's raw crying, the profuse tears that Phil could feel soaking through his trousers, made Phil's heart splinter in his chest as he instantly brought his free hand down to stroke down Clint's heavily lacerated and burnt back, trying to supress his guilt and fury at the flinch Clint wearily gave.

"Oh Clint, what have they done to you?"

His voice sounded old and ragged to his own ears, and he found himself unable to hold back the tears threatening to fall again as Clint wept harder.

"I can't… I can't…"

Phil softly dragged his fingers up Clint's spine to trace the new bruise that had appeared around his neck, and he was taken aback when Clint suddenly turned to look up at him, his tone frantic and pained.

"I can't let them know the truth." The strength of emotion behind Clint's admission stopped Phil's fingers in their tracks as Clint sobbed harder. "They can't know that I-I-I- don't…"

"Don't what, Clint?" Phil's tone was taut with fear and concern, his voice almost whispery as he failed to swallow down the lump throbbing in his chest.

"Selvig knew them, he-he-he programmed the override…"

As Clint's words began to run together, Phil froze, his entire body stiffening as he worked out where Clint's frantic rambling was heading. "Oh no, Clint, please tell me you're lying."

Clint's head faintly rocked against Phil's leg, and Phil felt like he was going to be sick.

"I don't know them, I don't know the codes. I never knew them, but Cooper, Cooper thinks I do and he won't stop, he won't stop, but… but…" Phil felt the tears finally bubble over he cupped his shaking hand against Clint's cheek. "I can't let them hurt you, they're going to kill you if they know, and I can't lose you again!"

The sudden power and heart-breaking honesty behind Clint's words was stunning, and Phil was caught firmly between pride, disbelief and an all-consuming agony that threatened to break him.

The only reason Clint was being tortured was to protect him; Clint, who was haunted by a past full of abuse and violence, was willing to tear open every single one of those horrific wounds and memories if it meant that Phil didn't get a finger laid on him.

Phil was the reason that Clint was withstanding every moment of hell, and Phil almost couldn't take it.

"Clint, I can't…"

Clint turned his devastating eyes on Phil's, and Phil fell silent, unable to speak against the desperate hopelessness that shone helplessly back up at him.

"I love you."

Phil was rendered dumbstruck at what had been whispered.

Years of flirting, of secret smiles and late night coffee runs; it had seemed so natural. Phil couldn't begin to imagine the idea that all of those moments had built up until the friendship they shared had apparently grown into something more for Clint.

Phil felt a painful throb in his chest. Clint Barton; the infamous, insubordinate, smart mouthed marksman who refused to admit any kind of emotions or hint of trust for fear of it being turned against him... Loved him?

It was impossible to believe.

Yet Phil knew he had no choice but to believe it.

The statement was more full of fear and self-loathing than anything else Phil had heard Clint utter since they'd been captured as Clint buried his face back into Phil's leg, near hyperventilating as the sobs started once more.

Those three simple words, those three beautiful, heart-breaking words falling from the lips of his friend cut Phil down to the bone. Why now? Phil thought sadly. Why say it now? His thumb softly brushing across the curve of Clint's cheek, Phil instinctively knew why it had to be now though.

Clint was obviously terrified that he was going to die, and Clint was never the sort of man to hold all the cards close to his chest when he thought the game was up.

Caressing the archer's features, Phil felt the way Clint tried to suddenly shrug Phil's hand away, and confusion crossed Phil's face for a few moments. This had been the first time since they'd been captured so many hours beforehand that Clint had refused Phil's touch, and in the wake of his confession, Phil couldn't understand why.

He went to open his mouth, to summon up the courage to ask why, but before he could, the door was slammed open hard, both Clint and Phil jumping out of their skins as Cooper came marching in, the cocky grin that had previously graced his face replaced with a look of impatience and anger as he stalked up to Clint.

Before Phil could react, a fist had wound itself in Clint's hair, roughly pulling him up onto his knees before he was viciously hit across the jaw by the gun that Phil had failed to notice.

His pulse skipped a beat, and Phil struggled not to choke on the air that left his lungs in a woosh as Cooper dragged Clint back up only to hit him again. Clint was slumped precariously, unable or unwilling to defend himself any further as Cooper strode over and drove his fist into Clint's gut, ignoring Phil's pleas to stop.

"I was willing to be tolerant," Cooper spat out venomously, his eyes blazing with deadly intent as he pulled a needle out from the back pocket of his jeans, waiting for Clint's head to lull back and expose his throat before forcibly stabbing the syringe into Clint's neck and releasing the silvery white tinged liquid.

"I was hoping that you'd play nice like the fucking little bastard you are, but you've tested my patience long enough."

Phil's eyes widened, and Cooper obviously saw this as he threw the now empty syringe at Phil. Concentrated Palladium Chloride. Phil renewed his fierce struggle to free his wrist, panic setting in as Clint gave out a groan, falling into a heap on the floor.

Flicking the safety catch off, Cooper kicked Clint onto his side facing Phil, resting the barrel of the gun against Clint's temple with enough force to show he was serious.

"Now, you will tell me those security codes. You refuse, Barton, and I'll make you watch as I put a bullet straight between your precious handler's eyes. Tick tock, little Hawk, because your time is running out."

Phil watched as Clint gasped for breath, his body convulsing as he desperately fought for air; his black eyes were firmly locked on Phil's, pleading for something, anything, but before Phil could say a word, one of Cooper's men ran into the room.

"Sir, we're under attack. SHIELD. We can't hold them out much longer."

The man's words had a sense of urgency to them, and through the bubble of fear that had settled around Phil's head, he could hear the sound of gunshots and explosions coming from deep inside the warehouse.

He smiled wearily for a moment; he knew they'd come to get them.

However, the deep rage that fell across Cooper's face at the news was one that terrified Phil, and he flinched violently as Cooper turned and callously put three bullets into the unfortunate bearer of bad news, not a shred of remorse or emotion on his face.

When he glared across the room at Phil, all sense of composure had left him; he stepped over Clint, coming up on Phil fast before unleashing a flurry of fists and kicks against him, many of them missing as the arms dealer was overcome with anger.

Curling up to defend himself as best as he could, Phil took a deep breath before yanking down on the cuffs with as much strength as he had left. His thumb gave out, twisting even more awkwardly than it already had as Phil finally managed to free himself of the wretched things, and a surge of adrenaline and red mist overwhelmed him as he tackled Cooper to the ground, the gun sliding just out of reach as they both wrestled for control.

The footsteps were getting louder, the voices clearer, and Phil knew he only had to hold Cooper off for a couple more minutes at most, landing a well-aimed punch at Cooper's nose as he madly scrambled for the gun.

However, just as he managed to brush the butt, Cooper took him off guard, clocking him with a stiff fist across the face that left Phil's ears ringing as Phil was forced on his back, the gun pressed against his forehead and Cooper looking down at him with a sick smile.

Phil's hands, although finally free from the cuffs, were trapped beneath his back, and he felt his chest tighten at the realisation that he probably wasn't going to survive a couple more minutes.

Cooper's finger looped around the trigger, but before he had the chance to pull it, Cooper was sent flying.

Pushing himself shakily to his feet, Phil almost collapsed straight back onto the floor when he saw Clint, his eyes wild and blood running from his mouth, desperately fighting with Cooper for control.

It took mere seconds, the gun constantly being tilted between Clint and Cooper's chests as they each tried to overpower the other, before the sudden explosion of a gunshot echoed around the room, the gun slipping out of both their hands and blood immediately pooling on the floor beneath them as a dozen SHIELD operatives, all dressed in black and armed to the teeth stormed the room.

Both Clint and Cooper's unmoving bodies were surrounded, and Phil dropped to his knees when he felt a hand against his shoulder, trying to support him. He didn't recognise the figure that was trying to get him to answer their questions whilst simultaneously screaming for medical assistance; his entire world had come down to the sight of Clint being pulled off of Cooper's body, of the blood that Phil couldn't identify that painted Clint's skin.

Clint's eyes briefly met his before they rolled back in his head and he fell into unconsciousness, immediately collapsing into a violent fit; his skin was paper white, his lips tinged a faint inky green from the insidious poison in his system, and the instantaneous burst of activity surrounding Clint's prone figure was enough to tell Phil that it was serious.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a large shadow advance towards Cooper, roughly kicking him onto his front with the toe of their boot before withdrawing a pistol from inside their coat and firing it straight at his head.

At the sound, the rest of reality suddenly broke through the haze of fog that clouded Phil's vision, and he instantly recognised Fury's imposing figure bend down in front of him, gently gripping his chin.

He saw the flash of red, white and blue giving orders from within the centre of the mass huddled over Clint's fitting body; he heard the desperate whispering of Russian endearments and the booming voice that cursed in Asgardian.

He was abruptly aware that he was hyperventilating, the pain in his head and his chest reaching fever pitch as he stared straight through Fury, trying to get any indication of Clint's obviously severe condition.

"Phil," Fury's voice called, strong and authoritative and enough to remind Phil of who he was and what he was doing, "Phil, it's over. All targets have been taken down, the perimeter's secure, and Cooper's nuclear stockpile and documents have all been destroyed. You've done what you set out to do, just relax and take a deep breath because I do not want to be carrying your ass out of here."

Phil couldn't help the weak smile that he gave, but both him and Fury knew his heart wasn't in it as he watched Rogers pick up Clint's body – was it even a rescue effort anymore, or just a body extraction? Phil thought sickeningly – and carry him through the maze of rooms and corridors towards the Quinjet running outside.

A small cluster of medics now surrounded Phil's adrenaline and panic shaken form, every single pain and hit he'd endured coming back tenfold now that the danger was finally over and threatening to make him claw off his skin.

Suddenly, all he could see and hear in his head was Clint's broken murmur of "I love you," the pained adoration in his eyes as he'd waited for his death to come so that he could save Phil, the sudden withdrawal as Phil had found himself unable to respond to Clint's confession and the archer had shut himself off... Shit.

"Mission accomplished, Agent," Fury whispered respectfully, and the all-consuming guilt and agony Phil felt overwhelmed him; Phil had passed out before he'd even hit the floor, the only thoughts revolving through his shattered mind that of grief and sorrow at Clint's willing decision to sacrifice his life for the good of Phil's.

Oh Clint, I'm so sorry…