A/N: PHEW! It took a bit longer than I expected to finish up this chapter. But HERE WE ARE! Yay…?

Before getting started, though… THANK YOU, so, so much, for all your reviews, listings and love! I'm INSANELY happy that you've all joined this emotional roller coaster. (BEAMS, and HUGS) It's gonna hurt, but it'll get better eventually, I promise!

Awkay, because stalling is rude (Steve would agree)… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

ONE POSSIBLE THEME-SONG FOR THIS CHAPTER/STORY: 'Won't Let You Go' from Avril Lavigne

Anger

/ After the first few weeks keeping track of time became impossible. And honestly, Clint wasn't sure he wanted to know how long had passed. How long everyone he cared about had thought that he was…

Clint threw up, a severe concussion making him feel even worse than he did before.

At first his captors, Emilia being only one of many, came every time he was awake or conscious. Always with new ways to torment him. They kept asking him about Project Eve and the Avengers. He said nothing, not even a single word. Or then he was far too chatty, about all the wrong things. He found a tiny hint of satisfaction from the way his silence and occasional smirks infuriated those tormenting him. Until they had enough and one beating had him smash his head against the floor so hard that he wondered if he'd finally die for real.

He woke up alone. Still handcuffed to a chair someone had the decency to lift to an upright position, covered in… He preferred not knowing what all. And that was exactly how he remained for a period of time he had no clue of. No food. No water. No medical care. Eventually he was in a state where he wondered, with an eerie level of disinterest, if they'd simply forgotten him.

Clint kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Until one day the room's door screeched painfully loudly upon opening and let in a horribly agonizing, bright beam of light. It wasn't until the door closed once more he was able to distinguish Emilia.

She arched a delicate eyebrow. "So?" she inquired, taking a seat right in front of him. She tilted her head and sighed at the sight of him. "Such a pretty thing, reduced to such a mess because of that foolish loyalty… What a good, obedient dog Nicholas made out of you." She pursed her lips. "You're still not going to tell me what I want to hear, are you?"

He mustered his best glare, trying to appear stronger than he felt.

Emilia smiled, tilting her head. "Oh, little songbird… Don't you understand that I enjoy it all the more this way?" she purred, then leaned to his ear as though trusting him with a big secret. "By the end of this you'll hate your pathetic life as much as I do mine. You'll beg me to end you."

She whistled as her hand ghosted above a table on which several devices had been placed. A syringe, a gun, a knife and a small but without a doubt a painful hammer… In the end she smirked icily and looked into his eyes while making her choice.

Two minutes later Clint's howls of pain echoed into the hallway. /

Clint woke up with a loud, desperate gasp, the nightmare interrupted right before the part that would've woken him up to his own scream. He panted, desperately trying to anchor himself to the reality while sweat dried on his skin, making him tremble from far more than cold. The scream… It was echoing inside his head…

Or no, not in his head. Not this time, although the worst and cruelest of all dreams had tormented him with this very sound countless of times. "DAD!"

"DADDY!"

His heart racing and mind reeling, Clint made sure that Laura was still fast asleep beside him, then left the bed as stealthily as his still healing injuries allowed. His slightly unsteady steps were tense and anxious when he made his way towards the room where his kids slept, dreading what he'd find. Entirely too many nightmares feeding him mercilessly with horror images.

What if…?

No. She was dead, Natasha made sure of it. There was no way…

The first thing Clint saw when he entered the room were his daughter's terrified eyes. Lila was sitting on her bed, legs brought to her chest and having made herself appear as small as possible. "He… He started having a bad dream", Lila whispered, appearing unsure whether she'd done something wrong.

Clint wished he had the words to try and comfort her. But at the moment his older son was trashing and whimpering in his sleep, needing him desperately. The archer wondered, his heart aching in his chest, just how many nights had gone by like this while he was away.

He limped forward, knowing better than to try touching his son. "Cooper? Buddy, wake up", he beckoned, gently but firmly. He barely recognized his own voice. The violent dream continued, and the boy called out to him again, sending another dagger of ice through his heart. "I'm right here, Coop. Just wake up."

Wake up Cooper did, with such a holler of anguish and sorrow that Clint didn't think it'd ever stop haunting him. The boy's eyes flew open, instantly seeing him. But the child didn't seek comfort. Anger, hurt, betrayal, mistrust and grief were all loudly present before Cooper hid his gaze by turning towards the wall and curling up as tightly as humanly possible. Everything about the boy screamed 'DON'T TOUCH ME' far more loudly than any words ever could've.

Clint swallowed hard, the raw emotions floating in the air between and around them making him shiver. This was the first time he wasn't allowed to comfort one of his children. Another thing Emilia stole from him. "Coop…"

"I… I saw you die." Cooper wasn't screaming, but the tone was such that the child could've as well been howling at the top of his lungs. "And it… It hurt, dad! It still hurts, so much that sometimes…" The boy trailed off, hesitating. Then continued with whispered words that struck harder than a bullet. "Sometimes I hate you. Sometimes I'm so angry at you that…" Whatever was almost voice became swallowed back. Was that a sob? "I hate myself, too, because… I'm not supposed to feel… like that, dad. I don't wanna feel like that."

Clint's chest tightened painfully at realization. So, his son… That video recording where Emilia supposedly killed him… He'd heard that it was posted online. But never, ever did he know to fear that Cooper might've had to see it. His eyes filled with tears of rage and sorrow as he looked at his son who was far too young for any of this. He would've given almost anything if he could've held and comforted the boy like he did before and wondered if he'd ever get to do so again.

"I know that it wasn't your fault." This time there was a clear sob as Cooper went on. "I… I get that, and I keep reminding myself every day, but…" The boy trailed off.

It took a few seconds before Clint found his voice. "I'm so sorry. What you…" He cleared his throat, trying to disguise how badly he would've wanted to cry, too. "What you went through… No child should ever have to experience it. And you should've never, ever had to see what you did." He took a deep, shuddering breath, unable to look at his children. "You have every right to be angry. As long as you know that every day… Every single one… I did anything I could to get back to you." On the worst days, so many of them, those waiting at home were the only thing keeping him going. He wiped his eyes before his kids would've seen the moisture finally beginning to fall. "You kids are the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I'd do anything, absolutely anything at all, if I could take away that hurt you're going through right now."

Cooper said nothing. Gave no sign of having heard him. Exhausted, defeated and mad at the whole world, Clint hauled his horribly aching body off of the bed to leave.

That was when Cooper finally spoke. "Can you stay?" The boy swallowed loudly. "I… I'm still mad, but… Can you stay, until I fall asleep?"

It was something Cooper hadn't asked since the boy was five. If Clint had hard time keeping his own emotions in check before… "Yeah, buddy", he promised, sitting back down gingerly. "Of course I'll stay."

Cooper remained quiet, only relaxed in a manner that spoke more than words. It took a considerable amount of time. But eventually the boy's breathing slowed and evened out as peaceful slumber took over under his dad's watch.

Clint was so deep in thought and emotionally overwhelmed that he didn't notice movement until the bed dipped slightly, startling him. His heart was still racing several moments after he realized that it was Lila. He blinked with confusion, his eyes aching although tears had mostly dried, when the little girl curled up against him, as close as humanly possible. "Sweetie, what…?"

"I don't wanna talk right now, daddy", Lila whispered barely audibly, her face buried to the fabric of his shirt. "I'm tired."

Clint gulped hard, combing his daughter's hair with a gentle hand. "It's okay", he swore quietly. "We don't have to talk." It was beginning to dawn on him that he and Cooper weren't the only ones who'd had bad dreams that night.

That night was long and painful, and not only because he would've desperately needed pain medication. The kids finally slumbered peacefully. Clint himself couldn't find any sleep.

It was like observing a ticking time-bomb.

Natasha had known Clint for so long time that most of the time she could read him like an open book. She knew how much he hated being benched, unwell, vulnerable, not in control over himself. Especially when his head was full and busy with… unpleasant things.

Post-Loki nearly destroyed him, and this was something much worse.

With dread she would've never admitted to having experienced Natasha waited for the bomb to drop. Waited for when it'd all become too much. For when he'd overcome the first shock and anger would set in.

She began to smell trouble when she came back from a mission to find the Tower uncomfortably quiet. The bad feeling grew when a weary faced and visibly annoyed doctor announced that the patient had defied her instructions and headed to a training room. "I wouldn't advice going after him", the medical professional cautioned her.

Natasha saw red. "I think I can handle my best friend", she announced with as much venom as she could muster. "I wouldn't advice you to come back and attempt to treat him before you've learned how to handle patients." In full honesty she knew how difficult of a patient the Hawk could be and that the doctor had probably done everything she could. But despite having just handled a lot of enemies the Widow still needed someone to be furious at and a stranger was a convenient target.

She wished, more than anything, that Fury hadn't made her kill Emilia fairly painlessly and quickly.

Considering his condition, the destruction Clint had caused on the training room was remarkable. A completely trashed punching bag, a weight having been tossed at a wall with enough force to leave a small hole, a broken mirror…

But sadly, it seemed that the archer had done the most damage on himself. Because at the moment the man was slumped on the floor, barely managing to sit up while panting heavily and wincing with every new breath. The man was horribly pale and Natasha was once again reminded of all the things her idiot of a friend might've messed up from his still ailing body.

"Not now." Clint's voice was somehow incredibly weak and sharper than a knife at the same time. Immense, crushing sadness and fire-hot raged rolled into one. The man refused to meet her gaze. "I'm an idiot, I get that. You can…" He winced and brought a hand on his stomach, agony furrowing his eyebrows. "… yell at me later. Right now I just… I really, really need you to leave."

Natasha stared at him, unfazed by his hostility. "No, you don't. You need someone to yell at." She took a seat a respectful distance away from him, knowing that as much as he needed company he also needed some space. "You gonna tell me why?"

Still not looking her way, humiliation joining other emotions, Clint lifted the hem of his shirt to reveal a small, brown bag fasted on his stomach. She'd known that he had a stoma but actually seeing it… "The doc just told me that unless someone pulls off a miracle this…" The last word was spoken in a voice that would've made most shudder. "… will be with me for the rest of my goddamned life. Because apparently a gigantic hole on my side can be fixed but intestines that have been messed up by bullets…" The Hawk trailed off, the painful anger becoming too much.

Natasha stared straight ahead, furiously trying to make some sense of it all. In the end it all culminated to a single word. "Fuck."

"Yeah." Clint took several unsteady breaths, rubbing his face roughly with both hands. "Language."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Great. Another language police in this team."

Clint tensed up visibly. It took a few moments before he voiced what was going through his mind. "I'm not much of a member of the team like this, am I?" His breathing wheezed and he lifted his chin so that he could stare at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "I hate this, Tasha. I want my life back. I want myself back."

Natasha wasn't very good at comforting people. Someone with her history couldn't be expected to be. And she most definitely wasn't very good at handling emotions, her own or those of others. So she did the only thing she could think of.

She took a knife and threw it at a wall with as much force as she could. Then handed another weapon to Clint. Without asking a thing or considering he also threw and watched with a spark of satisfaction in his eyes how it got stuck on the wall.

"Feel any better?" she inquired.

"Yeah." He winced, this time not from pain, as he looked around the room. "Tony's gonna kill us."

She quirked an eyebrow. "'Us'? You're the one who practically demolished this place." She then shrugged, focusing on the knives of the wall. "It was worth it."

It was worth it if it brought that smile to Clint's lips, tiny as it was.

Hours later Clint was finally fast asleep, aided by medication that he hadn't actually wanted. There was a deep frown on his face, a clear indication that tonight would be full of nightmares. Every now and then mumbled, incoherent words of distress escaped his lips.

And there was nothing Laura could do about it.

She was tired, frustrated, sad and angry. So it definitely wasn't the ideal time for her phone to start buzzing and Nick Fury's name to appear on the screen. She gritted her teeth and gathered herself before picking up. "Yeah?"

"How is he?" Only a careful ear caught the true emotions hiding behind his tone. Some other day Laura might've felt sympathy for him.

But now, looking at her husband… "Today…" She cleared her throat. "Today wasn't a good day. I think it might be a good idea to call again tomorrow."

Fury sighed heavily. "Laura… I'm…"

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't want your apologies. My husband… He was dead for six months." Some tears rolled down her cheeks but she ignored them. "Coop, he… He saw the clip of it, did you know? So did I, had to so I'd understand why he has nightmares almost every night and why he barely talks anymore. And Clint, he…" She gulped convulsively but the horrific taste didn't go anywhere. "Like I said, I don't need your apologies. I just… I need to know why." What was worth more than her husband's life?

"You know that I'd tell you if I could."

Did she? Really? Maybe she would, tomorrow. Right now all she could do was hang up.

Laura kissed her husband's brow, feeling a jab of ache when it did nothing to ease his discomfort. Then she spent an hour in one of the training rooms until she felt ready to pick up her phone again, her fists aching from torment she just put them through. "Dr. Harris? I, ah… I think I may need that session, after all."

It was one of those days when Clint's stomach didn't seem able to handle anything. He threw up all of the ten things he attempted to consume and was left with the worst abdominal pain he'd ever experienced. Or well, at least it didn't beat the first weeks after getting shot…

When he finally felt ready to emerge from the bathroom Tony was at the kitchen area. The billionaire made a face at the sight of him. "No offense, but you look like a 'Walking Dead' extra."

Clint groaned. He contemplated sitting down before deciding against it. "In that case I look better than I feel."

Tony glanced at him. Then nodded, clearly coming to a conclusion. "C'mon. You look too angry to be left alone with my kitchen."

Clint raised a suspicious eyebrow. But in the end chose to follow his friend's lead. "Where are we going?"

"I'm not gonna even ask if you're allowed to lift heavy stuff yet because I know that you've already been doing it. Just…" Tony winced, appearing genuinely concerned. "Don't tell Laura or Dr. Harris about this. Or Pepper. They'd kill me."

Clint expected a lot of things. What he hadn't known to expect was a room at one of the Tower's quiet parts that definitely needed some remodeling. There were two small sledgehammers sitting in the middle of it.

Tony shrugged at his confusion. "You want to smash something. Go for it. Because… Those pink walls have got to go."

Clint smirked. "Pink… walls? Really, Tin Can? Didn't imagine you to be the pink type."

"I pissed off some of the builders." Tony glared at him but it didn't come out even remotely threatening. "Another word, Feathers, and I'll use the sledgehammer on your thick skull."

Clint ignored the threat, instead took the sledgehammer and felt it. He was pleased to discover that he could handle the weight without feeling like he'd been torn to pieces. "Where did you get this idea from, anyway?"

"There… was a time when I felt like smashing something." Tony shrugged. "I figured you might feel that way right about now." The man took his own weapon, then pressed a button. Immediately AC/DC was blasting through the stereos. "Now are we done with the chick flick moment so we can get to work?"

Forty minutes later they sat on the floor, panting heavily. Aching and exhausted. And somehow feeling lighter than they had in ages.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Tony rolled his shoulders and after a moment there was a 'pop'. "Maybe now I'll stop finding knives from my walls. It looks cool and all, but also a bit creepy."

"I'm…"

"Say that you're sorry and I'll pluck your feathery behind."

"Try and you'll find an arrow from yours, Metal Head."

"That was weak, Robin Hood."

They both knew that there was a lot of healing to be done. And that Clint wouldn't be exactly the same again. But for a few stolen moments the archer could breathe easily once more.

TBC

A/N: Three more chapters to go, so we know that the 'hurt' isn't quite over yet… BUT, thank gosh Clint's got such an army of people looking after him! Even if everyone's hurting so very much. (winces)

Soooo… Was that any good? At all? PLEASE, do let me know! Hearing from you guys ALWAYS makes my day.

IN THE NEXT ONE Steve and Wanda will be more heavily present.

Until next time! I really hope that you'll all stay tuned for 'Bargaining'.

Take care, of yourselves and all the Clint Bartons of the world (because they're rare breed)!