A/N: It has been a long time since I've posted and I am so, so sorry for that but I hope this decently sized chapter helps to make up for it. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed/favorited/followed/etc. You guys are awesome! Please review! I love reading them as much as Clint loves arrows.

For a group called "Advanced Idea Mechanics", A.I.M. wasn't the brainiest bunch of villains Clint had encountered. True, they got points for removing his communicator/hearing aids and weapons from him, but chucking them in the dumpster where anyone could find them was sloppy. Anyone who knew Clint would realize he'd never trash his gear, and it would immediately draw red flags.

Not to mention, they blindfolded him but didn't bother taking extra turns or going out of their way to throw him off track. If Clint could escape, he'd not only be able to reach the exact alley they picked him up at, he'd be able to point out where they stopped for coffee. Perhaps the most informative clue of their lackluster intelligence, though, was the fact that none of them realized he couldn't hear a single damn word they said.

The van stopped after about an hour of driving. They pulled him roughly from the vehicle, jostled him through winding halls, and pushed him down stairs with the patience of wildfire. A few times they must have tried to say something to him because one of them jabbed him harshly in the side with an elbow before shoving him in a different direction. It was almost a relief when they shackled him with short chains to a wall, the blindfold finally removed from his face and leaving him blinking in the bright light.

It wasn't a surprise when his guards started hitting him. Sadly, this wasn't Clint's first kidnapping. A few solid punches to the gut, a cracked rib, and a mild head-shot were usually par for the course. There was probably mocking and taunting going on as well, but again…Clint couldn't hear a damn thing they said.

And he planned to use that to his advantage. The funny thing about torture and interrogation, Clint thought, was that you can't get answers from somebody who doesn't know the question. Tasha might beg to differ, but his captors were definitely not kick-ass Russian spies with the ability to know a person's life history by the way they stand. Right then, ignorance was bliss. Of course Clint wouldn't give anything away even if he could hear, not being able to hear their demands simply made it easier to play dumb.

After a while the first guards left and the torture crew entered. They wheeled in a table of gleaming metal tools, the primary torturer's hand lingering over them with staged deliberation before picking up iron knuckles.

Clint looked away, steeling himself for the pain. It was going to hurt…but he'd had worse. He let his mind wander when the interrogator began, doing his best to scan the room for weaknesses and think about anything except the punches bashing against him. He could tell when his silence started to anger them, the knuckles being put down for knives.

Maybe it was blood loss or the half dozen punches to the head, but for Clint, everything was a little foggy around the point they gave up on knives and brought out a hammer, threatening to break bones. He could remember grinning, looking up at his torturer through half lidded eyes and saying something witty…and Clint knew it was witty because the guy somehow managed to look even angrier before smashing the hammer into his left forearm.

Agony ripped through his body, white-hot where he knew they had broken the bone. Stars crossed before his eye, the muscles tightening and trying to draw his arm in where it was shackled. He may have yelled or let out a grunt…Clint hoped like hell that he didn't whimper…before everything went black and he slumped to the floor.

Clint had no idea how long he was out for, slivers of awareness popping up before he fell back into unconsciousness. It could have been hours or days later when he actually woke up and stayed awake. His arm was poorly splinted and wounds somewhat bandaged, a sandwich on a napkin and water in a Styrofoam cup left barely in his reach. After all, he couldn't die yet. A.I.M. needed him to stay alive and healthy, at least, healthy in the loosest definition…coherent was probably a better word, Clint thought.

Clint tentatively ate and drank, surveying the room again as best as he could. Security was less than he expected, A.I.M. underestimating him like many others, and if he could get out of the shackles, he could definitely get out of the room. Sturdy metal, weak locks…it was doable. For an ex-carnie turned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, escaping a pair of handcuffs was child's play provided he could get his hands on a paperclip or small wire.

The only issue was the small group of people currently making their way into the room, baseball bats slung over their shoulders. Clint pushed his garbage aside, wondering if it was worth the effort to fight back and block their blows. In the end, protecting his head and broken arm was the best Clint could do. He redirected their hits to less vulnerable places, keeping the damage to a minimum until he lost consciousness again.

Clint knew they'd kept him captive for almost a week now. A small part of him hoped the Avengers would have noticed he was missing and set out on a gallant rescue mission. The larger part of him knew there would be no end to this literal torture. If he wanted to get out, he'd have to do it himself.

So far his attempts to snatch objects from his torturers had been thwarted. Clint had managed a couple of retaliatory punches to his captors, using the distraction for flighty attempts to grab objects away from them but they were surprisingly good at keeping anything he could possibly use as weapons away from his wandering hands.

Each attempt was followed by a thorough beating, but soon Clint knew which guards had the slowest reflexes, which guards were the most easily provoked, and which guards ignored safety protocols by bringing their keys into the room. Clint memorized the faces and routine of everyone who entered his room. And now he had another plan.

The first guard he saw every morning was an average, normal middle aged man who was usually too tired to do any major damage. He threw a couple of punches, tried talking to him, and ended by shocking him with a low-grade Taser. He wasn't the most "creativity" torturer Clint had the misfortune of meeting, but he carried the keys with him, could be angered enough to move within easy striking distance, and frequently brought a metal thermos Clint had taken to eying as a potential weapon to knock him out.

Of all the guards, he was Clint's favorite. Mostly because Clint was certain he could provoke the man to step closer today, steal his keys, and finally get the hell out of dodge. Clint had everything perfectly planned; he knew that he could use the man's ID card and keys to open doors then the gun disable people who tried to stop him.

Which is why it came as a surprise when several new faces entered the room an hour before Mr. Average Joe's scheduled appearance during what Clint fondly thought of as his "free hour".

The people who entered carried high level badges and milled around near the edges of the room instead of jumping right into torture as the usuals did. They talked in whispers, casting glances over at him as they waited for someone. Their director, Clint realized as he pushed his tired mind and aching muscles to alertness.

When the head villain finally arrived, after taking his sweet damn time Clint thought irritably, they jolted into military straight stances where they stood against the walls. They hailed him as the scientist…supreme, maybe? Clint couldn't tell exactly what the second word was, but it sounded like a higher-than-though title. The man was about six feet tall, his brown hair slicked back, and green eyes shining over prominent cheekbones. Added with the long black lab-coat and black gloves, Clint thought he was going for an intimidating, Fury-esq look that missed the mark and flew toward the ridiculous.

The man's thin lips tightened into the barest of smiles, before he… introduced himself? Names were difficult to lip read, but he definitely said something about Clint, S.H.I.E.L.D., and tech. The rest was lost as he turned around, but if he wanted Clint to spill secrets about S.H.I.E.L.D. tech, he nabbed the wrong person.
Clint shifted, trying to keep it casual as he leaned for a better view of his captor and what he might be saying. Immediately, the guards on either side of him raised their guns toward him, looking nervous. The head scientist turned around and Clint pasted on his biggest shit-eating grin.

"I hate to break it to you, but I don't work with the fancy tech. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you," Clint said.

"We [all ready?] have the machine, Agent Barton," Clint saw the man say. "We need…control it. Rumor has it….[mine? No…mind] control. The Tesseract…" Clint looked away, not wanting to see any more.

They wanted the Tessaract. Clint hated that thing, the blue glow still haunting his darkest nightmares. They must not know that S.H.I.E.L.D, grudgingly, gave it back to Asgard. But they wanted to use it on a machine? As far as Clint was aware, the thing didn't work on tech. They were building something then. Something that they needed to control. Something that was part human or alien?

He was snapped from his thoughts by the literal snapping of his jaw as a fist connected with it, sending a chatter through his teeth. The Scientist Supreme hovered over him, gloved fingers tightening over Clint's jaw and they forced Clint's eyes meet his.

"Listen closely," Clint saw the Scientist say slowly. "You're not much of an Avenger, but you will tell us everything, whether you want to or not. Then we will sell you to the highest bidder. They can force out your secrets themselves. Organization like ours are working together… HYDRA is very interested in you."

"Then maybe you can give them a message for me," Clint said, using his words to cover the noise of his chains rattling. When the Scientist Supreme leaned closer to hear what Clint would say, Clint used the opportunity to ram his forehead into the other man's face and grab at him with his good arm. Clint felt the Scientist Supreme's nose break, blood gushing onto his black lab coat as he blindly moved away. Half a dozen hands immediately grabbed Clint, slamming him into the wall and proceeding to attack him.

Clint curled up as best as he could to protect his arm, stomach, and head. He caught sight of the Scientist Supreme yelling as he stalked out of the door, pointing toward Clint as a few more goons joined the fray.

Clint was a black and blue mess of bruises, busted skin, and blood by the time all the A.I.M. henchmen had tired and left. His head was throbbing, his own nose was broken in revenge, and his left forearm burned where they had torn off the splint and squeezed the broken edges of his bones together. But pain and discomfort aside, Clint couldn't help but smile when he uncurled and held his prize. Head-butting the Scientist Supreme wasn't just an act of defiance, though it felt damned good at the time. It was a distraction, during which Clint had swiped a fancy pen from the doc's pocket to pick apart the locks and hopefully find a way out.

He disassembled the pen, using the small metal pieces to pick the lock of his handcuffs in seconds. Moving forward cautiously, he examined the door with a grim smile, again thanking whoever deemed him less of a threat and decided to imprison him in a room with basic locks.

Next was the difficult part. He couldn't see outside and he couldn't hear when anyone was coming. He didn't have a weapon, any keys…any of the luxuries he would have stolen had his original plan been played out; There was some vibration through the floor when people approached, but that was all he knew about what might be outside the door. He could always wait until someone came in, try and free them of their weapon, except they might send in more people than he could handle.

Might as well go for it, Clint thought. His swollen left arm painfully gripped the door while the right clenched his makeshift weapon. Clint took a deep breath, preparing himself for a long, hard fight, and slowly opened the door.

Captain America may be a modern, technologically competent figure in the public eye, but behind the scenes, Steve could admit there were some things in the 21st century he didn't think he would ever fully understand. Staring at the elaborate text message from Stark on his cellular telephone telling him Director Fury needed them for a mission briefing was one of them.

Steve didn't mean using the telephone, Natasha had shown him everything he had needed to know about how it worked. It was the impersonal quality of it that he bothered him. Not a day went by without him seeing crowds of people with their noses buried in their phones, never seeming to notice the interesting characters standing right next to them. It wasn't like the old days when you talked freely with the people around you and actually had conversations.

Nowadays, people used text or e-mail or social media. They could see everything about a person but never know what they were like because they didn't actually talk to them. Steve missed the simple days where you had to put in the effort to get to know somebody. He would much rather call someone and have a conversation than text, but Stark loved the technology obsessed shift in communication. Which is why Steve didn't attempt to call Stark for more details like he wanted to and instead headed for the meeting room.

Natasha was still on assignment for S.H.I.E.L.D., but Bruce, Thor, and Stark (surprisingly) were already assembled when Steve arrived and took his seat. The only person missing was Hawkeye, but he had a rather annoying habit of showing up late so Steve didn't give it much thought.

"What did Director Fury call us in for?" Steve asked, looking to Stark for an answer.

"I called you in to deal with HYDRA," Director Fury said, entering the room at that moment and swiftly moving to stand before them. "It seems HYDRA is getting bolder. There are reports of gamma radiation consistent with that of the Tessaract coming from a previously known Hydra base. We need you to infiltrate it and find out why it's there."

"I thought the Tessaract was returned to Asgard," Bruce said, his gaze shifting from Director Fury to Thor.

"Indeed. The Tessaract has been returned to its rightful place," Thor said. "It cannot have been stolen by mortal men."

"Loki's scepter was stolen when HYDRA was outed as a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.," Director Fury said. "We believe it was removed from security during Alexander Pierce's time as Director."

"I see, so now you need us to pick up after your mistakes," Stark said. He leaned forward, pulling up information on the Scepter above the table on one of his hologram pictures and flicked through the information. "Why don't you get one of your agents to find it for you? Attacking their base doesn't sound like something you need the Avengers for, and it wouldn't exactly bring us good publicity."

"It's our duty to make sure Loki's scepter stays out of the wrong hands," Steve said. "It's our responsibility to make sure nothing like New York happens again."

"Is it though?" Tony asked, the corner of his lip quirking up as he contemplated it. "And speaking of the scepter, shouldn't we be waiting for Birdbrain's lazy ass to wander in before discussing this? Considering he is the only one of us with any real experience with the scepter's powers."

"Agent Barton is not available for the mission," Fury replied.

"Why not? S.H.I.E.L.D. has him pulled from active field duty for another month. If anyone has a say about finding Loki's scepter, it's him," Tony said. "J.A.R.V.I.S., wake Hawkeye up and send him to the main hall for a town meeting."

Stark was wrong about the scepter not being their responsibility, but Steve thought he made a fair point about Hawkeye. He ought to have a say in this discussion, but the man's chronic tardiness was enough to drive Steve batty. They would have to start this conversation all over again all because of Hawkeye's rude and inconsiderate-

"Agent Barton has not been in the tower for the last fifteen days, and communication with him is unsuccessful," J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice broke through the speaker.

"Agent Barton is M.I.A.," Director Fury said tersely. "S.H.I.E.L.D. will continue our search for him while you check HYDRA's base for the scepter."

The room went quiet, Tony's hologram fading away as he stared at Director Fury in disbelief. Steve couldn't believe it was true either. He could have sworn he saw Hawkeye...not since they fought A.I.M.. How had he not realized the man was missing? To be fair, Hawkeye wasn't the most sociable person, preferring to keep to his room, the roof, or the range, but Steve should have noticed when he didn't return to the tower.

Except he didn't. In fact, the longer Steve thought about it, he couldn't recall the last time he had checked in with the archer to make sure he was alright, much less held a conversation with him.

"What do you mean he's missing?" Stark demanded, standing up and starting to pace. "How long has S.H.I.E.L.D. known about this?"

"Agent Barton missed his scheduled check in two days after the fight against A.I.M. two weeks ago, at which time S.H.I.E.L.D. began searching for any trace off him," Director Fury said. "His gear was discovered after the fight in a nearby dumpster along with his communicators."

"Why did nobody inform us he was missing?" Steve asked, concern and irritation rising. "He's our teammate, we ought to be looking for him."

"Screw the mission," Tony said. "We need to be looking for Barton."

"It is not S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fault that the Avenger's did not realize their teammate had vanished, nor is it our obligation to inform you of his every step," Director Fury said, his voice harsh and unforgiving. "You will complete the mission as planned, and then you will be informed of Agent Barton's disappearance. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Stark said seethingly. "Send me the information so we can finish this."

He stood up and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Meet at the jet in ten minutes," Steve said to Thor and Bruce, watching them nod and leaving the room. He turned to the director, Fury's back to him as he stared out the window. "You should have told us sooner."

"We needed the Avenger's ready for anything," Director Fury said. "We couldn't have you chasing cold leads in search Agent Barton when the world may need you. Agent Barton can take care of himself until S.H.I.E.L.D. finds him."

"We deserved to know," Steve said firmly. "He's our teammate. If there is anything we could have done to find him sooner-"

"You failed to realize he was missing," Director Fury interrupted. "You can criticize S.H.I.E.L.D. if you like for not informing you sooner, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has done more in terms of finding Agent Barton than the Avengers have in the last two weeks. I suggest you prepare for the mission and we will discuss this later."

There were things in the 21st century that Steve would never fully understand. While he walked back to his room to grab his suit and prepare for the flight, Steve thought again about how impersonal and isolating it was to always have technology between you and the person you are getting to know. But thinking about Hawkeye, how he never realized he hadn't returned to the tower, Steve realized with a pang that it was much worse not getting to know a person because you never said anything to them.