Thank you to everyone who has commented, liked, favorited, and read this story. I am a terrible updater, but you guys are fantastic! A special thanks to the always fantastic finchfiesta for doing such a wonderful job beta-ing for me! Feel free to leave inspire me, and I love them like Clint loves dogs

Natasha woke up surprisingly warm and comfortable for having spent the night sleeping half-upright on the common room couch. She opened her eyes slowly, careful not to disturb Clint as she took in her surroundings. The windows were completely dark despite the clock on the wall saying it was well past eight in the morning. She could hear the clink of cutlery and shuffle of pans in the adjoining kitchen, occasionally interspersed by the murmur of soft voices she identified as belonging to Steve and Bruce.

"I hope they made waffles."

Natasha smirked, stretching her arms over her head, before dropping one hand to lazily ruffle Clint's shaggy hair. "Maybe if you're a good boy, they'll make some for you."

"Woof," Clint barked. He rolled onto his back, the small smile on his face covered by a wince as he curled inward on himself as much as he could.

"Hurts?"

"Stiff," Clint replied. He pushed himself upright with a groan, slumping next to her with his bad arm held close to his chest. His hair stuck up in random spikes, and his clothes were rumpled. He was examining the room slowly, trying to get his bearings. After a minute, he yawned, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his back. "I wouldn't be so stiff if you would've let me sleep in my own bed."

"We both slept on the couch last night," Natasha reminded him. "Not only am I older than you, I slept sitting up. You don't see me complaining."

"You're older technically. But you have the Russian equivalent of the super soldier serum so that's not a fair comparison."

"Life isn't fair. Get used to it," Natasha said. She pushed him gently, watching him collapse dramatically sideways, his face smooshed into pillows.

"You wound me," he said flatly.

"You'll heal. When you're done moping, join us for breakfast."

Natasha stood, moved around the couch, and headed toward the kitchen. As expected, Bruce and Steve were both busy cooking. Bruce was setting a tray of muffins on top of the stove while Steve took a drink from his steaming cup of coffee, a metal bowl half-filled with batter sat in front of him. Pancakes were frying on a griddle to his right, a mountain of them already stacked on a plate.

Natasha said hello and grabbed two plates and silverware before sitting at the counter, snagging the stack of pancakes and pulling it closer to herself. While she was filling her plate, Clint snuck into the room. He stood near her, shoulders drooping in an 'I'm-uncomfortable-but-don't-want-anyone-to-know' way. His hands were twitching at his side...signing, she realized.

She piled the second plate with pancakes, and pushed it in front of the seat next to her. "Eat up," she told him.

Clint sat slowly, staring at the plate. "It's never waffles," he muttered.

"Still delicious," Natasha said, taking a bite.

Clint stalled, poking at the pancakes on his plate with a fork, sneaking glances at Steve as though waiting for him to take the food away. Bruce solved the issue by placing a muffin on each of their plates, followed by two cups that he immediately filled with coffee.

"Steve and I thought the team could use a good breakfast," Bruce said. "Considering Tony's idea of a good breakfast is coffee, and Thor's still learning how to use the appliances, Steve and I took the initiative. I hope blueberry's okay."

Natasha nodded, monitoring Clint from the corner of her eye. He tensed briefly, an imperceptible thing the other's wouldn't notice, before turning a broad smile toward Bruce.

"I gotta say, I like Tony's idea of breakfast," Clint said. He took a large bite of the muffin, his eyes widening comically. "But these are great! I think I'm starting to like your idea of breakfast, too."

"Help yourselves to as much food as you like," Steve added. "I can always make more."

"Thanks, Cap," Clint said. He drowned his pancakes in maple syrup, and took a bite. A genuine smile spread over his face after he swallowed, and he nudged Natasha with his elbow. "You remember the last time we had pancakes, Nat?"

"Latvia?"

"Nah, that was before. Norway. At that awful motel," Clint answered. Recognition crossed her face, and Clint took another bite before explaining to Steve and Bruce. "We were laying low at a dumpy motel in Oslo during a mission, and they had a breakfast buffet for guests. I thought pancakes would be the safest bet, so I brought some back to the room for Nat and I, but they were terrible."

"They tasted like dry milk mixed with gravel," Natasha said.

"Natasha threw one against the table and it bounced," Clint said reverently. "It was great."

"Yours are a lot better," Natasha told Steve.

"It's clearly a high bar to beat," Steve deadpanned.

"You'd be surprised," Clint said around a mouthful of pancakes. "Agent Hill makes the fluffiest pancakes this side of the country. I think it's her grandpa's recipe. Although, if we're comparing S.H.I.E.L.D. employees and their cooking ability, Director Fury is near the top. I think it's his stress reliever. The man makes a mean goulash."

Clint looked up from his food to find Bruce and Steve staring at him. Natasha shrugged when Clint gave her a questioning look.

"What are you staring at?" Clint asked.

"It's just-." Bruce shuffled behind the counter. "I'm can't remember a time when you've talked this much."

"I don't really have a choice, do I? Not with this stupid not-really-a-truth-serum in me."

There was a moment of silence, Steve busying himself with stacking more pancakes on his plate, and Bruce taking an extra long drink of coffee. They were stalling. Both men were uncomfortable, hoping Clint would say more, but Natasha's partner showed no signs of breaking the tension. He was focused on his food with a single-mindedness that Natasha recognized from their sniper missions.

"I didn't notice a difference," Natasha interjected. "If anything, I think you're quieter than usual. Which is a huge shock considering most days you never shut up."

"You try talking for a week straight, see how well your voice holds up," Clint said. "Give me a few days to recuperate, and maybe I'll regale you with the same concert I gave HYDRA."

"I could only be so lucky."

"Did S.H.I.E.L.D. give you their records on my bloodwork?" Clint asked Bruce. "They took some when I first got there."

"They weren't able to do much with it," Bruce said. "They gave me whatever research they had, but the World Security Council halted their investigation while they were interrogating you."

Clint sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Sounds about right."

"If you want, we can draw more blood this afternoon, maybe start running tests," Bruce suggested. "And anything you can tell us would be useful."

"Sure. It was clear and colorless. They said something about it lasting longer and acting differently. I don't know most of what they said for obvious reasons," Clint said. A look of confusion crossed his face. "It was weird because I didn't feel any different. Natasha can back me up on this, but most truth serums affect your body, make you feel drunk or concussed. I didn't feel anything until I didn't say what I was thinking and then it was like my skull was being split apart."

"That's a good start," Bruce said. He grabbed a scratch piece of paper and started jotting information down. "Think you can meet Tony and myself down in the labs in fifteen minutes?

"Okay." Clint's eyes drifted over to the far side of the room, a frown playing at the corner of his mouth. Before Natasha could call him on it, he was smiling again, an uncanny ease about him. His eyes studiously avoided that section of wall. "Keep in mind that I'm not a pin cushion, Doc. And if Tony even thinks about coming at me with some kinda experimental brain wave thing, I'm out of there."

"Deal."

"While you fellas do that, I'll head to S.H.I.E.L.D. and gather some more information," Steve said.

"I'll join you," Natasha said. "What are you planning to do?"

"I thought I'd talk to Director Fury first," Steve said. "He seemed more receptive to helping us, maybe he can point us in the right direction."

"No. You want to work your way up the chain of command, start with doctors and scientists. Get them to talk before someone orders them to be silent."

While she and Steve talked tactics, she caught Clint leave out of the corner of her eye. He said something to Bruce, nearly dropped his plate as he handed it over, and walked away with his hands shoved into his pockets.

If there were suddenly two fewer muffins in the tin than there were moments before, Natasha wasn't going to point it out to Bruce and Steve.

Clint closed the door to his apartment, and let his head thump against the wood. He stood there briefly before making his way into the kitchen, and with a small sigh, he pulled the somewhat flattened muffins from his pockets and plopped them on the counter. He didn't actually remember taking them. It must have been a subconscious choice to squirrel them away, a habit he tried to break, but that always returned when he was most stressed.

Because Natasha was leaving again. Maybe it was only to visit S.H.I.E.L.D. to get information, and she would probably be back later, but it was small things like that which started the last time she seemed to cut ties with him. He hadn't noticed the signs then, but he was noticing them now. And maybe she was trying to leave again.

"Get a hold of yourself, Barton," he told himself firmly. "You're just imagining things. Everything was normal last night. You're being paranoid."

"I don't know about that," Barney's voice said. He flickered into view behind the counter, staring down at the muffins in disgust. "She was ignoring you the second half of breakfast. Didn't care to stick around with your sorry ass either."

"Natasha's of more use going to S.H.I.E.L.D. with Steve than staying here," Clint said. "Information gathering is her specialty."

"You want to try saying that like you mean it?"

"I'm not talking to you."

"You weren't talking to me at breakfast. You're talking to me now," Barney clarified. "Must be because subconsciously you trust me more than anyone to give you an honest opinion."

"I don't trust you. You tried to kill me."

"More than once, I think. Yet we've always managed to work it out." Barney grinned. "Let me guess, you were expecting Tasha for this therapy session? Except she's not around, too busy running around with more interesting people, even as a hallucination. Which is the problem, right?"

"Natasha can do whatever she wants."

"That's true. Because no matter what she does, you'll be waiting for her to return, hoping for a scrap of attention. For someone who's so damn independent, you can't stand being alone."

"Shut up, Barney," Clint growled.

"I'm not saying anything you didn't already think. I'm in your head, little brother," Barney said. "Hey, do you think maybe Natasha's decided she's repaid that debt she thinks she owes you? She's probably ready to get rid of you, you spineless, insecure, piece of-"

"Shut up!"

Clint turned tail and ran across the room, making a beeline for the bathroom, and slamming the door shut behind him. He turned the sink faucet on and let the cold water run over his shaky hands. He splashed it on his face and leaned on the counter, breathing heavily.

"They're gonna lock you up in a padded cell, you keep talking to your hallucinations," Clint told himself, resignation heavy in his voice.

"That might not be a bad idea."

"What do I need to do to make you leave?"

"Believe it or not, I'm trying to help you." Barney appeared behind him, leaning against the wall with dark eyes and a surprising amount of concern on his face. "I guess I'm here to remind you not to get too close to people. Don't give them that power, Clint, 'cause it's only a matter of time before somebody uses it to hurt you."

"Yeah, well, I've never been smart enough to take that advice."

"The Avengers will hurt you."

"Probably."

"Natasha will hurt you," Barney emphasized. "She's hurt you before, she'll do it again."

"Yeah." Clint rubbed the back of his neck. "But it's worth it."

Clint left his apartment, thankful Barney disappeared when he closed the door, and made his way to medical. Bruce and Tony were waiting for him. They stood together in front of a monitor containing notes from A.I.M., pouring over whatever information S.H.I.E.L.D. had managed to recover. Clint faked a smile, managing a nonchalance and postured relaxation he didn't feel.

"You're late," Bruce said, the words more of an observation than a judgement. He glanced up and did a brief double take. "I thought you were going to change out of your pajamas?"

"Better late than never." Clint shrugged. "And it's not like I'm going anywhere so why bother?"

Bruce nodded, turning back to the monitors. "We've been looking over the information from A.I.M., but it seems they weren't all that fond of documentation. Or at least documenting their research on computers."

"Which is probably the first intelligent thing A.I.M. has done, but it doesn't help us," Tony added. He took a long drink of coffee, sighing heavily. "Bruce filled me in. Are you sure you're not up for the experimental brain scans?"

"Depends. How much do you feel like taking an elbow to the gut?"

"Is this why none of the doctors want to work with you?"

"Doctors love working with me, Stark. I cut their workload in half by not sticking around."

"Oh god, what did I agree to?" Bruce whispered.

Clint's chest tightened uncomfortably, before he noticed the glimmer of amusement in Bruce's eyes. Barton, you dummy, it was a joke. There was no reason to take anything personally, and with that thought, Clint relaxed a little.

"Come on, Bruce, I won't be that bad." Clint held out his arm, a mischievous look on his face. "Go ahead and draw some blood, I promise to be on my best behavior."

Bruce had a doubtful look on his face, but Clint let them take as much blood as they needed. He answered their questions, even letting Bruce poke and prod at him with minimal fuss. He drew the line at imaging. Logically, he knew the bloodwork might not be enough, that they would need to see how his brain was physically reacting to the drug, and he would later. Later, when the idea of being confined in a small tube for even a short amount of time didn't make his skin crawl.

Maybe tomorrow he would agree to it.

It might have been part of the reason why when Tony asked a few hours later to borrow Clint's hearing aids to make some upgrades, Clint agreed. That and the fact that Natasha had just returned with Steve. Decision to try trusting people aside, Clint didn't exactly feel like having the Natasha style heart-to-heart of being chastised, yelled at, and reminded he was 'important too, Clint'. He knew she had likely seen through his act at breakfast.

Giving up his ears was as good an excuse as any to slink away to his room, curl up on his couch, and avoid confrontation. Her eyes narrowed at him when he gestured helplessly to his ears, shaking his head when he passed her as he left the lab. Her arms crossed over her chest, and while he guessed she understood, he also knew there would be hell to pay later.

So he rested. When he finally woke up, he stared at the blank walls of the room for several hours more. There was something comforting about being able to dissociate, being able to separate himself from reality, all while maintaining the feeling of safety. He allowed himself to slip into a hazy half-sleep, pulling himself fully back into awareness only when darkness had fully set and the clock read well past midnight.

His body ached and he took a few minutes to stretch, working out his stiff joints, before deciding to try and find Tony. The inventor slept so infrequently and at such odd hours, that Clint wouldn't be surprised if he was still awake.

A few minutes later, Clint opened the door to Tony's lab and shuffled inside. He spotted Tony on the far side of the room, leaning over a table littered with metal pieces and wires, a soldering iron held firmly in the inventor's hand. Tony didn't hear Clint as he approached, too preoccupied with his project, but DUM-E noticed and rolled forward. The robot extended its arm toward Clint, probably beeping at him, and Clint smiled.

Clint patted the robot affectionately and sat on a stool across from Tony, watching him work for a few seconds before asking, "D'you have my hearin' aids?"

Tony startled. He glanced at Clint then powered down the soldering iron while saying something to JARVIS. Clint realized Tony must have been listening to music when Tony raised his eyebrow questioningly at Clint.

"Do you have my hearing aids?" Clint asked again, careful to enunciate. He pointed at his ear with one hand.

Tony nodded. He shuffled through one of the desk drawers, eventually finding the box he was looking for and sliding it across the desk to Clint.

Clint examined his hearing aids carefully, checking them for any damage. He wasn't sure what Tony did with them, but they didn't look any different.

"They're not goin' to electrocute me when I put them in, are they?"

Tony grinned, more than a little amused, and shrugged. He said something and JARVIS flashed the words on a holographic screen.

"Only one way to find out."

Clint smirked, put his hearing aids in, and turned them on.

AC/DC was playing lightly in the background, and he could hear DUM-E whirring around the lab. The noise was clearer than it had been hours earlier, the precision S.H.I.E.L.D. had never quite been able to achieve, improved beyond anything Clint would have imagined possible. Clint was kicking himself for not having Tony do something to them earlier.

"I modified the wiring and adjusted a few settings to improve sound conduction. I'll have a better prototype ready in a few weeks after I've done some research and tested it," Tony said. "I'm thinking nearly microscopic arc reactors as a battery source. Obviously, I'd cover the light, unless you want the insides of your ears to glow."

"Thanks, Tony." Clint picked up a metal nut, absentmindedly turning it over in his hand. "You don't need to make any more upgrades. This is great as is."

"Don't be ridiculous. I have a thousand ideas on ways to make improvements," Tony said, waving vaguely in Clint's direction. "Two weeks, Barton. You'll wish you'd have mentioned something sooner."

The nut from Clint's hand bounced off of Tony's forehead, and Clint returned Tony's glare with a smile.

"Just making sure you're real."

"I don't think anyone's brain has the capacity to replicate this much genius."

"I think you mean 'ego' not 'genius.'"

"I've heard it both ways."

"I'm sure you have," Clint said, laughing. He stood up and stretched, eyes trailing around the room. "Well, this has been fun, Stark, but I'll let you get back to your project. I'm going to see how these updated aids hold up against an angry Russian assassin."

Clint took maybe two steps toward the door when Tony's voice, surprisingly somber, made him stop.

"You're a good actor, Clint. Your whole 'nothing-can-phase-me' routine is very convincing," Tony said. He picked up a screwdriver and resumed working on his project, sparing a glance at Clint briefly. "I don't think anyone except maybe Natasha and myself noticed."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Doesn't matter who you are, nobody is unaffected by torture," Tony said. His jaw was clenched, body tensed despite his relaxed tone.

"What's your point?" Clint growled, sounding more hostile than he intended. "You going to give me a lecture?"

"Not really the lecturing type. If you want to brood, go for it," Tony said. "Point is, I've always preferred distractions. And I'm pretty good at making distractions if you need one."

"The best distraction I have is archery, and I can't do that with a gimp arm," Clint said. He retook his seat on the stool, swiveling slightly.

"What about guns or knives?" Tony asked. "I bet I could find a laser somewhere around here that you could try."

"That's actually not a bad idea." Clint brightened, considered Tony for a minute before asking, "How's your aim?"

"Wonderful."

"And your aim without JARVIS assisting you?"

"Still wonderful."

"That's not what Rhodey said."

"You talked to Rhodey about my aim?" Tony said, sounding surprised.

"More like I heard him telling Pepper about the time you tried to shoot out a streetlight."

"Sir has an accuracy rating of 92.5% with my assistance and 77.6% without my assistance," JARVIS chipped in, almost sounding smug.

"Everyone's a critic these days," Tony muttered.

"How would you like to improve your accuracy to 90%?" Clint's leg bounced with nervous energy, ready to leave in case Tony said no.

Tony smiled, wiped his hands off on a rag, and stood up. "Sounds dangerous. And fun."

By the time Bruce stumbled into the lab the next morning, the lab was a mess. Clint was casually throwing knives at a target that had been haphazardly placed against the far wall, each one effortlessly hitting their target. Thor had wandered in earlier that morning and, to the other two's delight, had taken to throwing spears and sparks of lightning at another target. If Bruce had to guess, Thor was responsible for most of the charred marks on the wall. Though he could be wrong considering Tony was lining up to shoot yet a third target with a repulsor blast.

He lined up his shot, ready to fire when Clint murmured something to him and Tony adjusted his stance. There was a whir, the gauntlet on Tony's hand lighting up, before a beam shot out in a sudden burst. There was a neat hole in the center of the target, and Tony celebrated, pumping his fist in the air.

"Congratulations, sir," JARVIS's smooth voice announced, "You are now at 90% accuracy."