Author's Note: So, I originally intended this to be a simple one-shot. But the characters took over, so here is the next chapter. I should have mentioned this earlier, but this is beta'd by theicemenace, who patiently listens to my rants and then feeds the muse with ideas such as this. Blame her for the continuation of the story! ;) As always, hope you enjoy! ~lg

oOo

Watching Clint huddle on the Hudson River Promenade the day of Coulson's funeral broke Natasha's heart. Clint had always been a confident man, sure of himself and his skills. Loki's arrival on Earth changed all of that, and it tore at Natasha to see the damage done.

Over the next week, she paid careful attention to Clint's nonverbal cues. He'd always talked to her. And to Coulson. With Coulson gone, Clint had withdrawn into himself and watched everyone around with a wariness she'd never seen. It was as if he waited for one of them to stab him in the back. . .or for his own mind to fail.

Natasha would never forget the tone in Coulson's voice when he called her in the middle of that interrogation. "Barton's been compromised." Coulson's own emotions had escaped in the slight break in his voice. It only fueled Natasha's desire to find and free Clint before Loki killed him. Standard SHIELD procedure when an agent like Clint was compromised called for all other agents to capture the turncoat. If that failed, the compromised individual was to be sanctioned with extreme prejudice. Fortunately, the director and his superiors realized that Loki's influence went beyond simple brainwashing techniques. It had to have an Achilles heel, and finding it meant finding the solution to Loki's entire scheme. It also meant Clint had a chance to be rescued.

"I won't touch Barton, not until I make him kill you, slowly. Intimately, in every way he knows you fear! And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his skull!" Loki's threat toward Barton—and Natasha—had shaken her more than she cared to admit. She and Clint were close, two people in the same line of work who bonded over sniper rifles, recurve bows, arrows, and bullets. What did the world know of their work? Only the results. They stayed in the shadows, operating covertly unless a mission called for the Black Widow's unique skills. Then, she came out of the shadows while Clint backed her up. To know that he'd spilled every secret she had to a monster like Loki stung.

"Can you? Can you really wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter, Sao Paolo, the hospital fire? Yes, Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping. It's gushing red! And you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?" Loki's jab at her desires for absolution had cut as deeply as his threat against Clint. How had they gone from a team, a pair of assassins who worked best together, to weapons used against one another? It spoke to Loki's true power: the power of deception. As the days passed and more time came between the Chitauri invasion and the present, Natasha had realized that the true fight had barely begun. The political outcry against the Avengers increased, and the Council had called her in a week after Coulson's funeral, "interviewing" each member of the Avengers. They called it an "inquiry," a look at Fury's leadership to evaluate whether he'd stepped out of bounds or not. Natasha knew the Council longed to find a scapegoat. And Clint, who had been the only Avenger to fall under Loki's control, took the brunt of the abuse.

The Council's inquiry hadn't helped Clint's recovery. Every time he turned around, they wanted to grill him again on his time working for Loki. On those days, he usually slipped into base, kept his head down, and spent hours alone. Natasha once tried following him, but he turned and glared at her so fiercely that she gave him the time he needed to cope with his emotions.

She still hadn't dealt with her own emotions concerning Loki. She had felt real fear when facing the Hulk, but that fear had faded in the face of the Chitauri invasion. And, looking back on her own time spent with Loki, she realized the difference. She had seen something more than just a that Bruce was unable to control. With the Hulk, she could look into the eyes of the man behind the monster and see true contrition. In talking to Loki and then seeing Clint under the Asgardian's control, she'd seen two men who felt absolutely no remorse. It shook her deeply. If a man like Clint—whom she trusted with literally everything—could be so easily turned, what did that say about her? She found herself questioning every move she made and realized that Clint's ordeal had become her ordeal.

Watching him "detox" from Loki's control was almost worse than the coldness in his eyes when he tried to kill her. Clint had struggled against the bindings holding him, sweating and cursing at first. He kept shaking his head to clear it, proving to Natasha that he knew something was wrong. His question only confirmed that. "Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"

Natasha did know, better than anyone. But the Red Room and the Black Widow Program were a long ways behind her. She had escaped that life, rebuilt her own, and now controlled her destiny. She made the decisions for her life, not someone else. And she knew what it would take for Clint to be ready to move past his experiences with Loki. Unfortunately, she couldn't be the one to do the work.

Eight days after Coulson's funeral, she found the man she deemed most capable in the gym on the helicarrier, smacking a punching bag that should have stayed still but now swayed back and forth. "Steve."

Steve Rogers caught the bag and turned. "Hey. I didn't know you were here."

Natasha leaned against the edge of the door and shrugged. "Just got back." And she had. She had spent most of the last eight days in New York City, watching Clint kill himself to repay an imaginary debt. "You got a minute?"

"Sure." Steve turned from the punching bag and began unwrapping his hands. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat from his workout only highlighting his boyish charm and "old fashioned" appearance. He belonged in another time, one where women were still respected and cherished. For just a moment, Natasha wished she had known that and then decided she was better off in her time. She was strong, independent, and wouldn't want to feel stifled by that kind of society.

"I wanted to talk to you about Clint."

Steve stopped moving, glancing up suddenly at her words. "Everything okay with Agent Barton?"

"Yes, as far as I know." Natasha walked further into the gym, closing and locking the door behind her. To get Steve to understand her request, she'd have to be rather transparent. She didn't want just anyone walking in on them. "He's in New York, still working."

"Still?"

"That's why I'm here, Cap." Natasha smirked. "Did you think I came here because I was so drawn by your boyish good looks and sweaty workout?"

"N—no, I. . . ." Steve's voice trailed off as he realized she was teasing him. "Haha, very funny."

"Sorry, Cap. Couldn't resist." She sobered a moment later. "I really am here about Clint, though. He's. . .he's not right."

"Not right how?" Unlike others in their group—who would have made a sarcastic comment about barely realizing someone wasn't "right" in the head—Steve immediately picked up on her concern.

She hesitated slightly. "How much do you know about brainwashing and indoctrination?"

"Only what I saw in the war." Ironically, Steve didn't refer to the current war against terror or Afghanistan. He meant World War II, Adolf Hitler, and the Nazis.

"Thing is, I do." Natasha met his eyes. "I know what it's like to have someone override your own will, tell you what to think, what to believe, what to do. And to believe it's your own will, your own thoughts, and your own beliefs. Breaking that can be. . .difficult. . .at best."

"But not impossible."

"No." She sighed. "Unfortunately, there's a period after breaking through that indoctrination that is just as difficult. It's the questioning of whether people really trust you, whether you can trust yourself, and whether this is real."

"You think that's what Agent Barton's going through?" Steve picked up her unspoken cues.

"I know it's what he's going through." She shook her head. "But I'm not the one who can get through to him."

Steve's eyebrows rose. "You think I can?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes."

He paced a few steps away. "Why? I mean, I appreciate the compliment—if it's a compliment. But. . .I'm me."

"And that's why you'll get through to him." Natasha waited for the light to go off in Steve's mind, not surprised when it didn't take long. "Cap, you're the leader of this group. During the invasion, Stark gave leadership to you. That means, if anyone can get through to Clint that we trust him, it'll be you. It'll mean more coming from the man who has no idea, the man who can't even begin to understand."

"Will it?"

"You can't empathize or even sympathize, so don't get that wrong." She shrugged. "You're the Golden Boy, Captain America himself. In our line of work, trust isn't easily earned. It takes blood shed together, and it takes time."

"But I trust Agent Barton."

"I know, and so do I." Natasha sighed. "He doesn't trust himself."

Steve immediately understood. "And, because he doesn't trust himself, he thinks we don't trust him." When she nodded once, he cursed. "I never thought of it that way."

"You wouldn't."

"I'll talk to him," Steve promised. "Help him understand we trust him."

"It won't be easy, Captain." Natasha turned toward the door. "Clint's not your average person. But he'll get the message eventually. After we prove it to him. It's what he needs." She frowned. "Just do me a favor."

Steve held up a hand. "Not a word to the others."

"Thanks." She offered him one last smile and left the gym. Part of her doubted that she'd done the right thing, but she knew what it would mean to her to have the leader of the Avengers approach her in honesty and trust. It would mean the same to Clint, even if he didn't appear to accept it. She just hoped it didn't take another life-or-death situation to drive the lesson home. After all, Clint was stubborn and set in his ways. She grinned. She knew another assassin a lot like that. She saw that one every day when she looked into the mirror. She also saw the ghosts that haunted her, the way her eyes sometimes betrayed her fear whenever she dreamed of the Red Room, and the moments she questioned her purpose in life. She hated seeing the same expression on the face of the man who had been willing to sacrifice everything to save her from herself.