A/N: Hey everybody! Thanks for all the reviews and follows and favorites and whatnot. They make me feel absolutely lovely!

Bruce and Tony are not in this one. Sorry! They were, but now they aren't. They will be in the next one, I tripple dog promise! Their scene is way too light to be attached to this dramatic chapter. It just didn't fit!

Note: Each attempt is a different dream, different night. That'll make sense when you read it.

Some violence in this again.

I do not own the Avengers.

"How fares the dear Miss Romanoff?" Loki asked as he lay on his bench, one arm resting on his forehead. The other hand he examined, absentmindedly rubbing his thumbnail with his index finger. "Hm? I do remember our last conversation to be quite…enlightening."

Barton, who had nearly come to awareness as soon as he entered his dream, was pacing outside of the cell. "Do you know how much I'd like to rip your tongue out right about now?"

The god let out a small chuckle, "About as much as anyone else. But, for many reasons, that is quite impossible. But, come now, I'm here for much needed distraction. What about that Banner? I feel he and I… connected." Loki smirked at his own joke as he let his hands fold on his stomach.

"You'd think you'd ask me about Stark's floor," Clint muttered, "you seemed to be on intimate terms with it the last time I saw you." Loki rolled his eyes, a sneer gracing his features.

Clint wished he understood what was going on. Was Loki, the god of Trickery and Lies,-the guy who tried to take over the world—really just in his head for entertainment? What was his plan? Was he getting information that would somehow help him escape? Maybe he was secretly worming his way throughout his entire consciousness until he had full control, and then Loki in a Clint shell would try and take over Earth again. Fuck, he didn't know.

"Please, Barton. If you're going to try and use that brain within your brain, do try and be a little more subtle. And here I thought you were some sort of expert in the covert." Loki was looking over at him, one dark eyebrow raised.

"Go fuck yourself" he grumbled as he rubbed his face clear of the tension that had developed.

"You certainly have a fondness for that word." Loki turned his gaze to the ceiling.

Clint threw out his hands, "that's because this whole fucking situation is just so fucked up!"

"Quite" Loki replied with a smile.

Barton let out a frustrated growl, and sat back on his haunches, running his hands through his hair. Why was Loki doing this!? It made no sense!

"The way you're acting, you'd think I was torturing you." Loki seemed put out. "But where are the whips and chains? The needles and daggers? You are ever so dramatic, Barton."

The archer stood, and thrust his index finger at the god, "What's your play?! What's your game?"

Loki sighed frustrated, "If I only had a game, then perhaps I wouldn't be so bored!" The god nearly whined, but then it seemed like he was talking more to himself than to Barton, "perhaps that is Odin's plan: to drive me insane with monotony. Oh, but that would be clever now wouldn't it?" Looking over to Clint, the god sat up and smiled a devious smile, "But he does not know I have you to keep me company! Just think: one of Midgard's so called 'mightiest heroes' at my beck and call. Maybe next time you can dream of someplace sunnier. It might lighten your mood."

"If you're so bored, why don't you just do something about it!?" Clint snapped, "This is a dream, right? Just imagine a TV or something and leave me alone."

The god cast a bored look at the archer, "Must I explain everything to you?"

Oh, Clint really wanted to smash his face in.

Standing, Loki began to pace slowly, languidly. "As much as I'd like to, I cannot alter anything here besides my own appearance—my own conscious. I am in your mind, Barton. Use your imagination."

Raising an eyebrow, a decidedly evil grin pulled at his lips, "So I could imagine you getting crushed by a boulder?"

Loki returned his gaze, his own eyebrow lifted, "I highly doubt you could kill me, even in your own mind. Besides, I would just reappear tomorrow night, and the next and the next."

Fine. That was it. Barton had had enough. Loki was going to regret those words. He was going to regret everything he'd done—to him, to his teammates, to Earth. To Coulson. Clint would enjoy plunging a knife into the ego-maniac's chest. Or maybe he would just beat him to death. That might be more satisfying. But he'd save those for upcoming nights. Tonight, he would do what he'd wanted to do for over two weeks.

Pulling off the bow that was inexplicably over his shoulder, he notched it with an arrow from his quiver which was on his back like it had been there the whole time. Aiming slowly and deliberately, he leveled the sight directly at the god's cocky green eye. The bastard simply sat there, his expression stoic and apathetic. Barton wanted to see fear, he wanted to see hate. It would have been all too perfect if Loki would snarl with rage or grin with manic glee. Infuriated by the Trickster's lack of proper emotion, he let the arrow fly, straight and quick. It penetrated the glass like the filmy, shimmering rainbow wall of a soap bubble.

Clint was as taut as his bow, waiting for the liberation that would come from watching the god's head snap back, his body fall, and blood spray against the window behind. He wanted this—he needed this. It was as though someone had tied a rubber band to the inner wall of his chest, pulling back farther and farther, until it was about to snap.

But the hit never came. Loki had been sitting as still as a statue, an oak without a breeze, and just as the arrow head was about to pierce his grass-colored iris, he was gone. Like he was never there.

Clint woke with a furious roar, his hands twisted in his sheets. Slamming his fists into the mattress a few times, he looked at his cell phone. 4:12 am.

Kicking his coverings off and getting out of bed, he quickly and heatedly dressed, grabbed his bow and headed down to the training room.

Maybe he could get Jarvis to create a Loki-shaped target.

Attempt 1

Clint was in the middle of a rainforest, the air thick with humidity, moisture sticking to his lungs like aerosol. He was pressed against a tree on the outskirts of a small clearing.

Loki—like a dark, archaic idol of a long forgotten civilization—stood in the midst, his head bowed and turned to the side as if listening for something, and his hands clasped behind his back.

Hawkeye left his post and approached, letting the dim light drifting down from the crowded canopy above fall on his form.

"Are we really doing this?" The god's voice seemed muffled in the closeness of the damp vegetation.

"Shut up," Clint growled, advancing on Loki, throwing a right haymaker at the god's jaw. To his frustration, the Asgardian gracefully and swiftly slid to the side, dodging the blow. Spinning just as quick, Clint threw his leg out in a low sweeping kick, which sent the Liesmith falling backwards, bracing himself with his hands and springing back to his feet.

"Fight me!" Barton barked as he sent an elbow into Loki's side. Twisting out of the attack, Loki backed away smoothly.

"This is not what I meant when I asked for a diversion," the god sighed as he dodged another fist. "I suppose it is mildly amusing."

Snarling, Clint let his rage take over, ignored all of his Shield training, and rushed the god with abandon. As he was about to tackle Loki to the ground, he again disappeared.

Attempt 2

Loki was in an apartment on the 16th floor of a New York City high-rise. Clint stood on the roof of the opposite building. This time, he held a sniper rifle sighting the uninterested god in his crosshairs.

That damned bastard may be able to dodge an arrow, but Barton wanted to see how he would dodge a bullet. It wouldn't be as satisfying as jettisoning his eyeball back into his brain, or beating face into a bloody paste, but it would get the job done.

As he took one last look into the scope, he saw Loki turn and look directly at him, a smug smile on his face.

Clint's bullet made a perfect hole in the glass, but lodged itself unhindered in the wall beyond.

Loki was gone.

Attempt 3

This time the both of them were in the underground Shield base where the two first met—where Clint had been first been brain-washed by Loki.

The Tesseract glowed cold and bright, and Loki stood in front of it, his hands at his sides. Hawkeye stood before him, a long serrated knife in his hand.

"You are quite adamant about this, aren't you?" Loki asked low and serious.

"You surprised?" replied Clint, gripping the hilt tightly. "All I've wanted to do for past three weeks is kill you. You fucked everything up. You're a murder! An evil piece of shit that deserves to die!"

The god stared at the floor, a small non-smile on his face. "How true," he replied softly. "You truly do detest me, don't you? All that hate. It's all you can see, all you can taste. It fills you so completely, yet you are left utterly empty. Hollow." Raising his gaze, his emerald eyes bore into Barton's, disgust evident in his features. "You embrace your wrath and your revulsion because they are the only things that warm your freezing heart."

Barton grimaced in rage, "You don't know anything! Shut up!" He lunged forward, his free hand grabbing the god's shoulder, the blade plunging into his gut. Barton was surprised when he actually felt warm liquid spill over his fingers, and the god's body slump forward into him.

A wet chuckle bubbled out from the god's lips as Barton threw him to the ground onto his back. The god smiled ruefully up at the archer, blood staining his teeth and running down his pallid cheeks. "How does it feel to kill the monster of your dreams? Do you feel satisfaction? Joy? Peace?" Loki brought a hand to his stomach, pulling it back to gaze at the deep red staining his pale skin. Another gruesome half-giggle left his lips as he rubbed his slick fingers together. "How odd. Is this what transience feels like?"

Clint watched with a sick pleasure, waiting for the warmth that comes with satisfaction. Loki's obsidian hair was splayed out on the concrete as he stared vacantly at his own blood-covered hand. Any minute now, Clint would smile and relax and know that he'd finally gotten what he wanted. But as the floor beneath the Trickster began to stain, a glimmering pool of spilled Claret, Barton didn't feel anything at all. His hate sat cold, and putrefied in the pit of his stomach.

"Strange, is it not?" Loki swallowed, "We are more similar than you care to think, Barton." With one last chuckle, the god vanished.

As the room filled with the dulling mist, Clint stared vacantly into the puddle on the floor, the blue of the Tesseract tinting the scarlet blood a luminous violet.

"Shit."

A/N: So there's that. Dark? Yes, but it's a dream world. Clint needed to try and kill Loki, because what else would he do in his own head if he had the opportunity?

Also, me thinks Loki is not talking about just Clint at the end... I'm really subtle, aren't I? ;)

Next chapter is short and funny. A little pick me up after this one.

Review, my lovelies...

Fun Fact: Tony likes to whip his hair back and forth, whip his hair back and forth.

Wait what? *Note: Fun facts are not factual*