"So you're telling me you haven't made any progress?"

Bruce pushed up the glasses sitting on the edge of his nose, hands twitching nervously. He was starting to dread having this conversation. Even though Clint tried to hide it, Bruce could see his hope slipping further and further away every day that passed without a solid answer.

"It's not that we haven't made any progress," Bruce said. "The chemical structure of the compound is complex. Steve and Natasha's information has helped us pinpoint the molecular signature of it, but even so, finding a way to safely neutralize it requires us to isolate it and-"

"So you haven't made any progress," Clint interrupted. He turned his weary gaze from Bruce to Tony where the inventor had been watching from the sidelines.

"We can find it, but we can't fix it," Tony said. He crossed his arms in front of him and shrugged. "I thought it was getting better?"

"If you think having a five second delay between not saying anything and a skull splitting headache is an improvement, then yeah, I'm practically healed." Clint slumped backward, the palms of his hands digging into his eyes.

Bruce felt Clint's frustration, could empathize in his own way as he had been pouring over data and constantly felt the nagging thought at the back of his head saying he was missing something. Some days, he felt so frustrated and angry, he wanted to lock himself away in a Hulk-proof room and let the monster out.

Bruce pushed the feeling aside, and evaluated Clint. The cast had been removed, but the dark bags under his eyes were more prominent than ever. His shoulders were almost constantly drooping forward, his feet dragging with every step. His voice was hardly more than a raspy whisper, over-strained from constant use. Bruce got the impression Clint was struggling under the weight of weariness that had settled into his bones.

"It's a step in the right direction, Clint. We just need more time," Bruce said.

"Easy to say when you're not the one being affected by it."

"We're doing the best we can."

"And I appreciate that, I do, but it's been almost a month."

"I know, Clint. We're trying everything. I wish we had more, but we don't."

Clint cursed in something that could have been Irish, and sat up, immediately folding in on himself. His right hand came up to rest on the back of his neck. "So where do we go from here?" he asked.

"Let's give the modified body scanner another go," Bruce said with a sigh. "We fine-tuned it to register the signature from the serum and quantify it. We can start keeping track of where your levels are day to day, and see if we can find any trends."

Clint pushed heavily to a stand, ignoring Bruce's outstretched hand. They walked to Medical, and before long, Clint was laying on the body scan machine table, wearing specially designed hearing aids that wouldn't interfere with the machine, while Bruce and Tony watched from behind protective shielding.

The constant hum of the machine seemed to amplify as Bruce adjusted the settings, and the table slowly eased Clint into the machine.

"Alright, Clint, we're going to start," Bruce said. "We need to get a lock on the serum's signature, and once we have that, we can quantify it. Try to stay still."

"Easier said than done."

"Aw, birdy, do you need a pillow? Want some relaxing pan flute music or some of those essence sticks Bruce uses to stink up his meditation room?" Tony replied.

"It's called incense, Tony," Bruce said.

"It's called overwhelming, Bruce. Seriously, you chose lavender as your incense scent? If you had chosen vanilla, at least the tower would smell like a bakery, but lavender? Smells more like a new-age bookstore in there."

The machine gave a soft beep, Bruce talking through what was happening with Clint while Tony pulled up the hologram of a body outline and adjusted settings on the machine.

"We've got a lock, Clint. Sit tight, we're generating numbers now."

"Awesome. Does this mean I'm allowed to talk again?"

"Aaaand done," Tony said, pressing a button that lit up the hologram like a Christmas tree. "Congratulations, Barton, you are the proud owner of just over 60,000 units of truth serum."

"Yay. Never been happier."

"You know, I'm starting to think this not-really-a-truth serum might be a good thing. It's really getting you to open up, tweety. I feel so connected to you."

"Is that so, Stark?"

"It's like I'm able to read your mind," Tony said with a smirk.

"Then you should know what I'm thinking now."

The screen flickered, and Bruce gave Tony a dirty look.

"You just thought how lucky you are to have me as a friend," Tony said. "I have to admit, I'm touched you think so highly of me."

Bruce tuned out their bantering, leaning closer to the hologram with wide eyes. "Clint, do that again."

"Do what?"

"Think something. But don't say anything."

"Bruce?" Tony gave him a questioning look.

"Do it, Clint!" Bruce urged.

There was a second before the screen changed again, Tony's expression switching to dumbstruck. "Son of a bitch."

Bruce sat down, hand over his mouth. All the tension he had been holding on to left him in a rush. He was nearly dizzy with the revelation that the solution was right in front of them and easier than they could have imagined. The thing that they had been avoiding, the thing they had been telling Clint not to do-

"So am I dying?"

"No. Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you, but when you stopped talking, the reading changed. The units went down." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "I think we've been approaching this all wrong. We've been trying to find a way to extract the serum from your body when we what we needed to do was figure out a way for you to metabolize it."

"You have almost a thousand fewer units than you did moments ago," Tony added.

"My guess is that when you don't speak, the serum is in effect and your body burns through it to make it work. We'll keep trying to find a way to neutralize it, but the quickest way might be powering through it."

"Sounds like a shit deal," Clint said quietly.

"Yeah," Bruce agreed. "It's not ideal."

Tony fiddled with the machine while Bruce was crunching numbers in his head, trying to figure out how long it would take to completely burn through the serum. The room was uncannily quiet, Bruce zoning out as he watched the serum units ticking down, moving steadily faster.

Bruce jolted upright. He smacked Tony, shouting at him to pull Clint out of the machine as he rushed into the room. He was cursing himself for not hooking Clint up to any monitors, an ECG at minimum, because Clint clearly wasn't planning on taking a methodical, controlled approach.

"Clint, say something!"

Clint's muscles were strung like cables, the knuckles of his fists white. His eyes were tightly shut, pain distorting his features and small growls escaping through clenched teeth. Bruce knew without a doubt that Clint was planning on pushing himself to the breaking point and burning through the serum in one go.

"Clint, stop!" Bruce yelled. "You're going to hurt yourself!"

Bruce quickly reached out to feel for a pulse. Clint jerked away once, an unnatural keening noise escaping from him, but Bruce persisted. Instantly, Bruce could feel the galloping, tachycardic pulse under his fingers. The tremoring started soon after, racking up to whole body convulsions that shook the table violently. Bruce's own heart pounded as Clint's eyes rolled into the back of his head, arms moving spastically, and he lost consciousness.

"He's seizing! Tony, get a med-kit ready!" Bruce turned Clint on his side, protecting his head as best as possible. "Make sure it has materials for an IV catheter. We'll need Diazepam on standby, but we have to get him away from the MRI."

Bruce didn't bother waiting for a reply, turning his attention back to his patient.

Nearly a full minute later, the tremors began to die down. Clint's muscles slowly relaxed, head falling to the side. Clint's heart rate was still too high for Bruce's taste, but it seemed to be returning to normal. Even Clint's breathing was returning to normal.

Bruce breathed a sigh.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Bruce turned to find not only Tony, but the rest of the Avengers gathered just behind the safety barrier. Thor and Steve shared the same concerned, uncertain look. Natasha was glaring through the glass, arms crossed in front of her, and Bruce nearly took a step back at the waves of anger radiating from her stare.

"We need to move him to an actual bed," Bruce said, breaking the silence. "Now, in case he starts seizing again."

"You'll need to restrain him."

All eyes looked at Natasha, their stares a mixture of confusion. Her eyes never left Clint, her steely gaze hardening even more as if she could sense their resistance to the idea.

Bruce felt his heart sink.

"Natasha…"

"Restrain him," she repeated firmly. "Or he'll hurt someone."

Bruce shared a look with Tony, then nodded.

Five minutes later, Clint was laying on one of the hospital beds in the medical wing, strong padded restraints fastened around his wrists and ankles and monitors attached to softly beeping machines. He had an IV catheter taped to the back of his hand, into which Bruce was injecting an anti-seizure medication into one of its ports. Natasha was standing on the other side of Clint's bed, watching him intently.

"I don't like this," Steve said quietly.

He and Thor were standing warily near the doorway, trying to stay out of Bruce's way. Tony had left to distract himself in his workshop.

Bruce opened his mouth to say something. He closed it, unable to find the words. Finally, he settled on "I don't like it either."

They fell silent. Bruce kept a close eye on the monitors, hoping it would eat away some of the guilt sitting heavily on him. He couldn't have predicted that Clint would have a seizure. Medically speaking, he had done what he could, but the voice at the back of his mind kept asking him why he didn't insist on attaching the monitors when Clint protested. Why didn't he notice when Clint stopped talking and the values dropped? Why wasn't he paying attention?

Natasha shifted subtly, expectantly, and had the room not been so still, Bruce was sure they all would have missed it.

They all turned their attention to Clint, following her lead. A few seconds passed, then a minute, and Bruce was on the verge of asking Natasha what she saw when Clint's heart rate picked up. He shifted lethargically, hands and feet tugging absently at the restraints. His eyes fluttered open, looking blearily around the room, mouth moving silently.

Bruce felt himself relax. Encouraged by the lack of a struggle coming from Clint, he moved forward to undo the restraints, but Natasha shook her head.

"You restrained me?" Clint paused as if waiting for a reply, eyes attempted to focus unsteadily on something only he could see near the foot of the bed. "I thought we were past that, Barn? What happened to fightin' fair?"

"You're at the tower, Clint," Natasha said. She stepped closer, looking to catch his eye, but Clint either didn't see her or didn't care.

At least that was what Bruce thought until Clint lunged forward, trying the smash his head into hers. She neatly sidestepped the maneuver as Clint began to thrash against his restraints with as much strength as he had left.

"Son of a bitch, how could you?" he yelled. "You'd let him kill me?"

The monitors let out shrill cries, the situation devolving as Clint attempted to pull out his catheter, a sense of panic rising as he started yelling. Bruce had a syringe in hand, halfway through drawing up a sedative when Natasha grabbed each of Clint's hands in her own and pressed them firmly into the bed.

"They're not real," she said. "Clint, you're gonna be alright."

Clint turned in her direction, eyes never truly focusing on her, but her voice must have made its way through the current fog clouding his mind. He seemed to surrender, collapsing back into the bed, pushing his neck backwards into the mattress.

"Nat?" he finally grit out.

"Yes."

"Head trauma, drugs, or mind control?"

"Seizure."

"That's a new one."

"Hard to believe that's still possible." Natasha released his arms. She sat down on one of the chairs, her feet propped up on Clint's bed. She glared at the others, and Bruce got the distinct impression she was asserting her possessiveness over Clint, daring them to make a comment. When they didn't, her hackles seemed to lower, and in a somewhat gentler tone, she said, "Go to sleep. We'll talk when you're lucid."

Clint didn't need any further prompting, unconscious the second his head settled back on the pillow.

"Does that happen often?" Bruce asked.

Natasha shrugged. "Head injuries or needing to be restrained?"

Clint came to slowly, a dull headache simmering at his temples. He pushed himself into a sitting position, as much as he could with the restraints still in place, and blinked against the too bright lights.

"Are you lucid yet?"

Clint let his eyes drop closed, a small smile on his face at her voice.

"Depends on how solid you are."

Clint let out a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh as Natasha kicked him not unkindly. He saw her smirk, legs propped up on the side of his bed with an ease born out of familiarity.

"Alright. Get your stinky feet off me, Romanoff. I've been tortured enough."

Natasha gave him one last kick for good measure and stood. She made quick work of undoing his restraints, offering him a hand, and pulling him to the edge of the bed where they sat side by side.

"How much do you remember?" she asked.

"They told me not talking would burn through the serum. Then I had a seizure."

"Maybe you overdid it."

"You know, I was thinking the same thing around the time I started seizing."

"Want to get out of here?"

"Hell, yes."

It was an unspoken agreement that they head to the kitchen. It was empty, Clint taking a seat at the island while Natasha pulled out the necessary supplies for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, passing them to Clint when she had finished making her own. He slathered the bread with a heaping layer of peanut butter followed by a similarly sized layer of jelly before taking a bite.

It was amazing how good a simple sandwich could be. He took another bite, savoring the taste, when a glob of filling hit the counter. "Aw, sandwich, no," Clint said.

Natasha tossed him a towel and he cleaned up the mess. She did her best to seem preoccupied with her food, but he could see her watching him out of the corner of his eye. She looked away when he turned to her, her eyes flitting back to him, widening innocently.

"I'm fine," Clint said.

"I didn't ask if you were."

"Yeah, but you were staring at me in that way which means you're either concerned or angry." Clint took another bite, mouth still full when he asked, "So which is it?"

"Bold of you to assume it can only be one or the other." Natasha smirked, and Clint couldn't help grinning back at her. "Does this mean we're ready to talk?"

"I suppose it's as good a time as any to act like we're not both emotionally repressed."

"You've been avoiding me."

"Well, you started it."

"Mature, Clint."

"You distanced yourself from me after S.H.I.E.L.D. discovered Hydra had infiltrated them. Ignored me as much as you could while we were working with the Avengers. Then you left me for a solo mission that you requested without saying a goddamn word to me, Nat." Clint took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair so it balanced on two legs. "Excuse me for feeling a little petty."

"You're right. After we exposed all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets, I felt exposed. I thought I needed some space, and I went about it the wrong way," Natasha said.

"That's an excuse." The chair thumped on the floor as Clint let it fall back on all four legs. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, his voice teasing when he added, "It's a very nice excuse. Flattering actually, but it's not exactly what I was hoping you'd say."

Natasha rolled her eyes, mouth twitching in a way that told Clint she was fighting down her own amusement. "What do you want then? You want me to say I'm sorry?"

"Yes, please."

"I'm sorry you felt abandoned."

"First of all, I forgive you. Second, I'm starting to think we have a different definition of what an apology is. That was not an actual apology."

"It was a perfect apology. I said I'm sorry."

"You said you were sorry for how I felt. That's like saying 'I'm sorry you think the sky is green.' You're not admitting you're wrong, you're just saying you're sorry the other person is stupid."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I don't see the difference."

They stared at each other, both attempting to look serious before Clint started laughing. Once he started, Natasha followed, and Clint was struck by the realization that, god, he missed this. He missed staying up way too late, eating junk food, and just talking with Nat. Whatever wall had been put up between them was being pulled apart, and it was like a weight being lifted from him.

"You owe me an apology now," Nat demanded. "It's only fair after I apologized to you for being distant, that you apologize to me for avoiding me."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Tasha." Clint's hand rubbed at the back of his neck. "Dunno why I did it. I think I was feeling petty and a bit guilty about not telling you about my hearing sooner."

"You could have told me," Tasha said, her voice gentle but firm. "I wouldn't have treated you any different."

"Obviously you did know."

"There's a reason I'm a highly ranked spy, Clint. I notice when my partner fails to show up for accidental, middle-of-the-night fire alarms." Natasha looked proud of herself, a sly gleam in her eyes. "I also notice when Coulson is muttering to himself about having to put in his tenth request in two months for new hearing aids."

"Hey. Eight of those were not my fault. S.H.I.E.L.D. should be better at water-proofing their gear."

"Uh-huh."

Clint laughed, holding up his fist out for a bump, a twinkle in his eyes. "Still friends then?"

Natasha rolled her eyes again, meeting his fist with her own. "Obviously."

The conversation fell into a lull, and Clint hesitated before letting his mind wander. There were a few seconds when he didn't feel anything before the headache started again. Maybe it was the dullness from the last headache, or maybe it was knowing that the pain was helping him get rid of it, but the pain seemed more bearable than before. He let it last for several seconds as Natasha watched him warily, before clearing his mind and saying, "What time is it, Nat?"

Natasha ignored the question. "I'm not breaking you out of medical again if you have another seizure."

"Yeah, I'm not planning on letting it get that far."

Clint caught sight of Tony, face and shirt smudged with oil, entering the kitchen on the far side and raised his hand in greeting. The genius, billionaire, engineer-turned-medical expert nodded, grabbed a cup of coffee, and joined them at the table. "The headaches are getting better though, right? They're not as strong?" Tony asked.

"Yeah, I think so. Doesn't start as soon as before." Clint nodded, eyes brightening as an idea popped into his head. "We ought to check the feeds, see how long it took from the start of the headache to when I started seizing to make a safety window."

"That's a good idea. I'll have JARVIS look into it."

"Clint?"

Clint turned to Natasha, an eyebrow raised. Her expression was hard to read but seemed to be equal parts curious and cautious. The same look she'd wear when Clint would suggest a less than ideal, yet often necessary plan when one of their missions took a turn sideways. The look she had been wearing recently when…

When he'd been hallucinating and talking to people not really there.

"I'm guessing Tony Stark didn't just walk into the room?"

"No. But you still had a good idea."

Aw, futz. It was bad enough when the hallucinations were of people he hadn't seen in years, worse still when they were people in the tower.

"Do you think the hallucinations will get worse the more you fight the serum?" Natasha asked.

"God, I hope not."