Trigger warnings at the end of the chapter.

The chapter title sounds sinister but it is actually an inspiring song For Those Who Wait by Fireflight, which, if you listen to the words in the context of this chapter, goes back to having a sinister meaning. Oh well. It fits.

He blocked the next week out... mostly. He remembered waking up, bound, with his wrists in front and his elbows from behind; his left leg chained to a wall, broken leg set, but not completely secure, so he would need to be careful. The realization that he was blind, that led to panic.

But Donnelly was there, gripping his hair, "There there, dirty bird, no need to panic."

His eyes had been taped shut, and would remain that way until Clint begged to go back to his room.

Clint lasted a week. Maybe. He wasn't sure. By the end he had a fever and had lost track of most of what was happening.

He could remember hearing distant banging and closer murmurings from people; but nothing felt real, how could it when he couldn't see? He knew Donnelly was telling the truth and he was out of his cell simply because the ground felt different. People would pass by and hit him, touch him, throw things at him...food? Clint never felt alone. Sometimes he knew someone was close by and watching him but never coming close.

They did more, but Clint didn't remember it now, chose not to remember passed the hands touching him, fingers gripping his hair, forcing him onto his knees, pain in his broken leg.

When Donnelly would come by, and it was more often than when he was in his cell, he would call Clint 'dirty bird' and finally Clint understood; the psycho Annie had called the author in 'Misery' a 'dirty bird'. Did that mean Patrick was reporting their conversations or simply that Donnelly wanted Clint to know that they were being watched?

Was Patrick alright? Maybe he really wasn't suppose to be talking to Clint.

When the fever began to take hold he heard Patrick's voice along with another that was becoming familiar.

...really not going to tell me?" Patrick asked.

"You've missed out, being off base."

Clint tried to concentrate. He could feel the heat coming off his body

"I doubt it, nothing happens… here." One of them stopped, it must have been Patrick because the other voice drew closer.

"You were always going on about that shot he took in Rabat." Fingers gripped his hair and Clint was pulled to his knees. "Now you can take a shot at him," the man laughed.

There was a pause, then Patrick laughed, it was short, but Clint tried not to curl in on himself. He started fading in and out. But he knew the Patrick never came any closer. He came back long enough to hear Patrick say "you've been on base too long" and then they walked away.

Everything else was a haze.

He was shivering. He kept getting hotter, but he still felt so cold. He could hear Donnelly talking but couldn't understand him.

Clint's head was pulled back and he felt the mouth spreader being forced in.

'I'm getting all kinds of ideas, Hawkeye.'

Clint bucked and thrashed around yelling, refusing to take the device into his mouth.

"No more, no more!"

The spreader was pulled away, "What was that Hawkeye?" Donnelly asked, "Why don't you try that again."

Clint was so tired. Tired of being touched and hit. Tired of feeling eyes watching him but not doing anything. He just wanted to be alone.

"Please," Clint almost bit his tongue, but continued, "Donnelly, let me go back to my room."

Clint kept telling himself that he wasn't broken, that he was just letting Donnelly believe he was giving up. But he wasn't as sure anymore.

"Was that really so hard?" Donnelly asked, as Clint faded out again.

88888888

Clint probably woke up a dozen times but didn't remember much, just glimpses of Patrick, before the heat finally began to fade away.

He was back in his cell, laying on a cot. Still naked, but there was a heavy blanket over him. He felt a twinge in his elbow and looked down in time to see Patrick pull out an IV.

"Patty?" Clint croaked, before he fully came to his senses.

Patrick gave a small nod but didn't look at him. "You've been delirious with a fever for about three days now. You," his lips gave a slight upturn, "should be fine."

Clint resisted smiling back and tried to sit up, but didn't make it far.

"That's not going to happen yet," Patrick said, moving some trays and tubings. "You've been living off an IV for three days and, from what I understand, barely ate anything for a week before that. You're going to have build your strength back up."

Patrick still wasn't looking at Clint.

"What the hell do you want, Patrick."

Patrick turned to him. "What?"

'What do you want? What are you suppose to be doing here with me?" Why didn't you use me like your buddy had been doing?

"Making sure the fever didn't kill you, for one," Patrick replied. "They still want you alive. But they've got to be idiots to think you'd ever give anything up."

Clint closed his eyes, shaking his head. "No more games, Patrick. I get enough of those from Donnelly, just tell me what you want. What are you still doing here? You already told me you're not normally this hands on for a job. You were hired on to shoot me, so why are you still here?"

When there was no immediate answer, Clint opened his eyes.

Patrick was frowning, looking like he was deciding something, then slowly nodded. "Alright, you want to truth? I am actually still here to keep you alive, because these people don't know what the hell they're doing. You're the best goddamn shot in the world and they're treating you like some lower level SHIELD agent."

"If that were true I'd have gotten out of here by now."

"I'm not kidding around, Clint. They don't even realize what you could do for them, what an asset you'd be."

"I'd never-"

"And why not?" Patrick asked, angrily, "Where's your team?" He moved to the wall and pulled off one of the clippings and brought it over to Clint. "Because, to me, it looks like they're still living their lives like you were never there. Where's SHIELD? I thought they didn't abandon their own?"

Clint flinched. Their own. Did he still qualify as that? Everything had gotten better when Coulson came back, not like it had use to be, but Clint thought he had proven himself enough. Did they just write him off because they still couldn't trust him?

Clint shook his head.

"No," Patrick pressed, "You wanted to know, Clint. Why the hell do you need them if they don't need you, you're better than that."

"Stop acting like you know me!" Clint yelled. "If you hadn't shot me none of this would have happened!"

Clint could see Patrick visibly restrain himself before he looked away. "That's true. And you'd still be blissfully unaware of how little you actually meant to them."

Clint snarled and tried to get up again, making slow progress.

Patrick huffed, gathering up odds and ends he had brought in.

To help you.

"Don't expect me to apologise for taking away your ignorance, man. Just," Patrick sighed, pausing at the door, "don't die for them when they don't even give a shit about you." And he was gone.

Clint's breath was coming fast now, and he yelled as he fell back down on the cot, his vision beginning to fade again, as he pulled at his hair.

They're coming. Tony's coming. 'I understand fine. I just don't care.' Steve doesn't leave men behind. He went to a dinner for families of soldiers who were MIA or POW, the article never mentioned him talking about a missing Avenger, he talked about Bucky.

You are so pathetic.

He struggled to control his breathing. They're coming. They're coming.

You know they're not. They can't find you. You're going to die here.

'Don't die for them.'

He was going to die here.

88888888

Clint was chained back to the pillar and life in hell continued like it always had. Caning, whipping, waterboarding, cattle prods, a little orange knife. It kind of felt like Donnelly wasn't trying as hard, didn't say much to Clint, didn't whisper into his ear. Clint wasn't going to complain.

More laminated clipping were taped to the wall. Clint still didn't look at them… not really.

After a week he started talking to Patrick again. He didn't dwell on it. Patrick was there, so Clint talked to him, just back and forth snark. Patty didn't bring up what he had said before, not that Clint could forget it.

Patrick had said that he stayed for Clint.

It didn't matter. It was a ploy for all he knew, so they didn't talk about it.

The thing that was most worrying, though, was that Donnelly had stopped touching Clint, stopped raping him. Clint didn't want it, didn't miss it. But Donnelly had just stopped, out of the blue. What was he doing? Was he just done with it? Had he gotten bored with Clint? That didn't seem like Donnelly, the sicko really liked getting off on Clint's pain. So it seemed too good to be true.

And it was.

Donnelly was just saving it up for Clint's four month mark.

88888888

"You little shit!" The belt came down again, the buckle tearing into his back, and he cried out. Each hit was reopening older cuts. Blood dripped down his sides.

"I'm sorry dad! Please!" he wailed.

But the belt kept raining down.

Clint had messed up so bad this time; even Barney wasn't trying to help him. But he always tried to be good. Stay out of dad's way, especially when he was drinking, don't get noticed. Be invisible. He deserved this, if he had been bad enough that dad had come looking for him.

"You going to try and be a good boy now?"

"Yes, yes!" he sobbed.

"Good," he heard, before he felt hands touching him, manipulating him.

"No, Dad," He pulled free but lost his balance, his back hitting a wall, causing the pain to flare up again.

"Clint, wake up!"

His head pulsed as eyes sluggishly opened to the dark cell, only one of the holes was open letting in a dim light. Was it dawn or dusk? Patrick came into focus, kneeling next to him.

"It's just me."

As some awareness came back, he began to feel the sponge dripping water on his back.

"You with me now?" Patrick asked.

Hazily, he gave a nod.

"You were pretty out of it there."

Memories of the past day started resurfacing and he began dry heaving.

'Mr. Walker must have had fun with you. Were you a good boy for him? Did your brother have to drag you away, you little whore?'

Donnelly took a drag from a cigarette, then put it out on Clint's arm. As Clint screamed, Donnelly smile and lit up another one.

Clint was shaking. How did they know? SHIELD had erased all records of his childhood in Waverly. If anyone tried to look him up, they would only be able to find pictures of him at Carson's. Clint Barton didn't exist before the circus. That was the deal he made with them. No childhood. Nothing to come back and get him. Even Barney was dead. No one should know about his dad and the beatings. Or Walker at the foster home who was a little too affectionate. Clint was pretty sure Coulson himself had gone to the midwest town to get every hard copy there was.

But then they had injected him with something that fogged up his mind, unlocked him from the chains and Donnelly came in with a belt and started calling him son, but mainly 'little shit' because when he was a kid sometimes he forgot his name was Clint and not 'you little shit'. And then his dad was there in Donnelly's place, telling him how worthless he was, and then… using him, calling him a "good boy". His dad had never touched him like that, but that didn't seem to matter because there he was, with hands all over Clint, and it tore him apart even more.

How did they know? How did they know?

SHIELD told them, was the obvious answer. Not just anyone could get into the hard files, especially not his.

Why not his? What was so special about him? Clint was told the files were protected, why couldn't they have lied to him? Words, they were only words.

He wasn't giving up. Not over some twisted mind games. The sponge moved down his side and a sob escaped his lips.

He could do this. So, they were effective mind games; he could still get past them. He just needed to hold out until they came. Who? The team. Tony and Nat. They were soft and careful with him. Maybe not Nat, but she was still careful. They wouldn't hurt him. Nat hurt him when they sparred. Did she look down on him because he couldn't beat her? They wouldn't leave him here. Tony had tried to break up with him that one time… and then that other time. He hadn't meant it though, he was just scared. Was Tony happy he was gone? Relieved he wasn't there to tie him down? Had Bruce finally...

Little shit!

They wouldn't leave him here. The papers were lies. The phone call was a lie. They were lying to him. They, who? Who had lied? The team. They lied, or they would be here. No, no, Donnelly was lying. Donnelly was lying.

The knife moved down Clint's back, Donnelly's hand followed, digging into the cuts.

He's going to rip you apart.

He just needed... something. It was so hard to think, with his mind so muddled.

The sponge moved across his shoulders and for the first time, he leaned into Patrick's touch; it was always so careful.

He felt Patrick hesitate, then cautiously slip an arm over him.

"You can beat this, Clint," he said, softly, "Donnelly's a dick. Don't let him break you."

No one was going to break Clint. He hissed when the water hit a particularly deep gash and he heard Patrick whisper a 'sorry'.

Clint leaned in further, letting most of his weight rest on Patrick's knees.

A hand moved through his hair and he breathed out another sob.

"Alright," Patrick said, shifting Clint a bit, "I'm going to help you out."

Help? Wasn't he already helping? Clint nodded anyway.

The other hand with the sponge was still rubbing him; it moved lower, around to his chest and lower, and suddenly the sponge was gone and Patrick wasn't being professional about it anymore.

No. He was careful. Patrick was safe. He was suppose to be safe.

"No." Clint tried to pull away, but Patrick still had his arm around him and after his session with Donnelly, Clint was barely conscious. "Pat, no," he groaned.

Pat's mouth moved near to his ear, whispering, "I'm just going to take care of you, alright?"

Clint shook his head and his vision swam. How could he be so stupid? He was being held captive and tortured. Safe? He had let Patrick get too close. He tried to crawl away, but Patrick held him in place, his hands moving gently over his skin, and Clint began to feel himself respond to the touch.

"You need this."

"Please," Clint whimpered, trying to hold back more sobs.

"It's alright," Patrick murmured, soothingly, "it's alright."

But he didn't stop.

88888888

It became a thing after that. Besides Donnelly and whatever tortures he came up with for Clint, there was Patrick. There was no gloating about Clint falling for some twisted plan. Patrick didn't suddenly show a darker side, something he had just been waiting for the right moment to reveal; it was still Patty, and he acted like he really thought he was helping Clint. But Clint had no distance, couldn't see anything clearly anymore, and Patrick was still the only one that took care of him. Part of him wished that his safe place with Patrick was ruined, that he could simply close himself off from the bucket guy, but he couldn't. Not when he was the only one who touched Clint with any ounce of kindness. He hated that he seemed to be so desperate for any measure of care; that the ill treatment and torture were starting to take their toll. The feeling of betrayal was still there, but being around Patrick was still the safest place he had.

And he didn't fully understand that, until that, too, was taken away.

Trigger Warnings: Rape, torture, underage rape, child abuse, belt whipping, forced drug use, burning with cigarettes,