- - - Pain. So much tiring pain that Clint didn't want to wake up. But then someone was touching him. No. No more.

He jerked away from the hands. He could only move so far, his arms were still held up above him, but had been loosened, finally allowing him to kneel; chains pooled slightly around his ankles; he had been given enough length to finally lay down, if Donnelly ever lowered his arms.

His vision was already swimming but, Screw it. Clint kicked back with his right leg, hoping to hit something, but whoever was back there had moved out of his range. He looked back, blinking away the blurred vision. Two of the holes were open, letting in enough daylight to give him a good look at the other man.

Medium brown hair, peppered on the sides, long enough for some curl to show at the ends. Average build, toned. Brown shirt, green combat pants, army colors. He had, maybe, ten years on Clint. He was kneeling next to a bucket of water. He held up his hands, wearing latex gloves, a sponge in one of them, trying to be reassuring, "Relax, I'm not here to hurt you." American accent.

Yeah, right. Clint shook his head, still keeping himself as far away from the guy as possible. "Don't touch me," he croaked, and ended up coughing.

The man paused. "I'm going to have to," he said, giving the sponge in his hand a little shake, making it fling water around.

Clint frowned, looking down at the bucket again. His mind was working too slowly. Why didn't the guy just throw the water on him?

"It was suggested that the hose wouldn't be enough today," then, more reluctantly, "I need to check you over, Agent Barton."

"Go to hell," he panted. Just being upright and conscious was wearing on him, he wouldn't be able to do anything else.

Somehow sensing that, Bucket Guy moved forward and started cleaning Clint's back. He flinched when the sponge went lower, and the man halted a moment then continued down, saying, "I'm not actually here for that either."

Clint tried to focus on his breathing, and not the hands. He didn't want anymore hands on him. No. But no didn't matter. And now that the water was here he couldn't seem to ignore how dirty he felt, or fool himself into believing it was only blood staining his skin.

The sponge moved between his legs but never lingered in one place.

Clint tried to zone out, but was only able to get to the point of caring less; the water dripping across his skin was too distracting. Bucket Guy sticking his fingers where they weren't wanted didn't help but, again, he didn't linger. He even helped Clint pull up his pants when he was done.

There was a scrape as the bucket was picked up and he heard the man walking away.

"What, no, 'you should be fine', Bucket Guy?" Clint tried to snarl.

He heard the water slosh.

"Unless you're ready to talk to Donnelly, that would be a pretty stupid thing to say."

There was silence, like he was actually waiting for an answer, then the water sloshed again and he heard the door slide open and close.

Yeah, that would be pretty stupid.

88888888

Donnelly left him alone for a few days, and Clint was thankful; not to Donnelly, because he could go screw himself, and… things like that used to be funny.

He had a small metal cup that was filled with water a few times a day. He had tried to use it as a weapon, but that had only gotten it taken away for a few days, so he left it alone. Meals usually consisted of energy bars, military rations, or a peanut butter sandwich, no jelly.

After Bucket Guy left, the chains loosened and Clint slumped to the ground in relief. It took him longer than he liked to notice the tray of food to his left. Actual food. Baked potato and an apple. He must have stared at it for at least five minute before he trusted himself enough to move. He wanted to throw the tray across the room. It looked like a pat on the head, and words like 'conditioning' wouldn't budge from his mind.

Bastard!

But he breathed, slowly. Stuff the pride, Barton, you need to survive. Eat the damn food, let Donnelly believe he's winning.

Sure. Yeah. He could do that.

88888888

"I wasn't going to say anything," Donnelly began, when the chains clicked into place at the end of the track.

Clint glance at what Donnelly was holding. It looked like a newspaper clipping. It was laminated. Sure, he wasn't going to say anything.

"But this belief that the Avengers are coming for you is becoming idiotic. Apparently, they couldn't care less that you're gone."

What? "What?"

"Why would they come for you, when they've already replaced you?" Donnelly held up the laminated paper. WHO IS THE NEW AVENGER? with a photograph that was obviously taken from a distance; a slightly blurred candid shot, showing a man with a sniper rifle standing next to Captain America.

Clint blinked, then shook his head. It could easily be a faked. And even if it wasn't, if the Avengers got called out while he was still missing they would need someone to cover them. This didn't mean anything. They were still looking for him. He knew how Steve felt about leaving men behind; it was something that didn't happen, he would come for Clint by himself if he had to. Natasha had that thing about owning him a debt, not that it was really about that anymore; it was just her way of telling him that she had his back. Thor was as honorable as they come. Bruce was loyal and would guilt himself way too much to not try. And Tony… Tony…

88888888

"JARVIS, how long has Tony been down in his lab?"

"Going on seventeen hours, Clint."

Clint hummed. "Anyway I can order you to shut down his computers?"

"Unfortunately no, Sir."

Clint looked around, and started humming a beat, as a smiled formed.

Forty five minutes later Tony stepped off the elevator, hollering, "Clint! You wouldn't happen to know anything about a contaminate in the lab ventilation system, would you? JARVIS said it wasn't safe to be in there until he could… is that a stuffed crust pizza?"

"Yep," Clint said, his mouth full. He quickly swallowed, "I was just about to watch 'Iron Giant', want to join me?"

Tony squinted his eyes and looked around suspiciously.

Clint smiled and held up a bag of yogurt covered blueberries.

Tony huffed a laugh and smiled, shaking his head, "Why not?"

88888888

Tony wouldn't leave him. He would come. It had been over a month, Tony must be freaking out, not being able to find him.

Donnelly stuck the clipping to the wall with some tape.

Really?

Donnelly was crazy. Acting like a eight year old and then turning around and very calmly beating Clint to a pulp.

The next day his pants were shredded by the whip and the remains were taken away. They didn't bring him any replacements. Why would they? Naked Hawkeye was so much more accessible.

A few days later, after a beating, Donnelly took a knife to him. It was a small thing, about the length of his ring finger, with an orange plastic handle. In fact, Clint was pretty sure they had one in the communal kitchen at the Tower. It may have been small but it was sharp.

Donnelly moved around him making shallow cuts all over his body. Clint was already sweating from the cane and that quickly seeped into the cuts, making his body feel like it was on fire.

The knife was more intimate than the whip, it kept Donnelly close, running his hands over Clint, wrapping his arms around him to keep him still so a cut wouldn't go too deep. By the end, Clint knew what was coming. The chains stopped in the same place, pulling him tight and Clint tried to shut his brain down. Tried to not feel the hands moving over him, or hear anything Donnelly was whispering to him before the real pain came.

Clint woke, hearing the sloshing bucket again and feeling the water dripping over him.

"Can't have you dying on us because some cuts get infected."

Clint almost shook his head. This guy must have no idea what he was doing. He was leaving himself open for attack everywhere, but, to be fair, with the way Clint was feeling, he wasn't going to be making any escape attempts at the moment. But that didn't mean he couldn't demean the help.

"So it's 'us', huh? Not 'them'?" Clint rasped. It would work better if he didn't sound like this.

He got a questioning look in response.

"I'm just saying, you seem more like their janitor than anything else. They make a mess, you come and clean it up. Or is this an entry level position? Working your way up?"

Bucket guy gave him a considering look, then continued cleaning off the grime. "I volunteered to do this," he finally said.

Clint's brain was still working too slow. "To do what?"

Bucket guy held up the sponge. "This."

"I'm going with creeped out," Clint warned. "Why?"

Bucket guy chuckled. "Because you're Hawkeye. World's Greatest Marksman. Top SHIELD sniper. Scary as hell assassin. You want me to continue?"

"No," Clint moved away slightly; definitely going with creepy.

"Don't," Bucket guy sighed, loudly, "Come on, this isn't Misery. I'm not your biggest fan. I do, however, admire the skills you have. Why not take the chance to meet a legend?"

One of his captures admired him. Or was pretending to admire him. Was this a ploy to get information? Clint didn't like the conflict this conversation was causing in his mind. "Stop talking to me," he said, pulling away again.

"That probably sounded worse-"

"Stop," Clint snapped, "Don't talk to me."

There was a pause. "Alright. I can do that." Bucket guy finished cleaning him off and left without another word.

Clint tried not to enjoy his piece of chicken and orange.

88888888

Weeks passed. More clipping were added to the wall. He didn't look at them. One was about Steve at a function for families of soldiers who were prisoners of war or missing in action. Donnelly seemed particularly pleased to show him that. What did it mean? Was the team trying to somehow let him know that they were still coming? But they would have no way of knowing Clint would be told about it and only Steve had attended. The most recent one had a picture of Iron Man taking off with an unconscious Bruce in his arms, bridal style. The paper didn't know what had happened to him during the battle.

It was so cold. His fingers couldn't grip the granola bar he had been tossed. They must have put something in his food because when he had woken up earlier he was hanging from the ceiling dressed in a sweatshirt and pants. One of the grunts was in the room with Donnelly, holding a-

Before he could fully grasp what was about to happen, a cloth was wrapped around him nose and mouth and the hose started pouring water over him.

He wasn't ready, so instinct took over, making him thrash around, trying to dislodge the rag. It was probably only a minute before water was going down his throat. After the first round, he was able to calm himself down and make it through the rest with minimal drowning. Though he was still hacking long after they left.

It was obvious they had put him in the sweats just so they would get soaked and hold in the cold of the room. He was chained back up to the pillar, hours later, when Bucket Guy came in, but this time he had towels.

Clint couldn't help it. They hadn't asked any questions during the session, whenever he tried to say anything he was hit.

"They finally promote you to Towel Boy?" he asked, unable to hide his shivers.

There was no response. Right, Clint told the guy not to talk to him.

He felt a slight tug at his soaking shirt, then heard the distinct sound of cutting fabric.

No. No. "No. ...the hell? Stop it." It came out more like a whine than a command.

Bucket Guy sighed, "I can't unlock those cuffs and the wet clothes need to come off. No one wants to deal with you being sick. I can send someone else in here to do this, but I can guarantee they won't be as nice about it."

Over his cold skin he could still feel the burn of Donnelly's touch. He shivered and nodded his assent. He hated it; feeling his clothes being cut away, exposing his naked skin again. Bucket Guy dried him off, everywhere; ever the professional, didn't get handsy. Left a towel around Clint's shoulders when he was finished and got up to leave.

Damn it. Clint hit his head against the brick of the pillar. Bad idea. "What's your name?" he asked, before he could stop himself. "Unless you prefer Bucket Guy or Towel Boy?"

There was a hesitation, then, "Patrick."

Clint blinked. First name.

Patrick paused at the door. "You're going to want to get some sleep, tomorrow's going to be tough," he cautioned, before leaving.

Misery is a Stephen King novel about a writer who has a car accident in the mountains and is rescued by a woman, who turns out to be obsessed with him. She locks him up and forces him to write a novel for her. It's pretty messed up.