Okay, since I got some reviews saying that some people enjoyed this story, I've decided to continue! (Not to mention it's really fun writing these. 3) This chapter is full of Clint!whump… Because of reasons that involve a suggestion from a reviewer. (Just a quick reminder; the main torture weapons being used in this story are sound weapons. I watched a show about how some people designed sound weapons to where you can't hear it but it'll do you a great deal of pain and damage. That was a while ago, though, so I'm sort of winging it.) I hope you guys like this as much as you liked the other!
*****

The echoes of the slamming door were still bouncing off the walls. Bruce was pressed against the bars, hand still extended, eyes wide, and the ghost of Clint's kiss still tingling on his mouth. His breathing was more like panicked panting, whole body shaking. The wound on his shoulder had taken a good jostling, but the adrenaline was still coursing through him and he could barely feel a thing. He hadn't wanted this- anything but this- when he was taken down to that horrid lab. Had he known what was happing when he was escorted back to the cell, he would've refused with everything he had.

Bruce pulled back from the bars, running a hand over his hair, hating the way he was shaking. He felt sick to his stomach, but the anger bubbling within him was quickly covering that. It was pointless to get angry, though; whatever the hell he was injected with didn't seem to be wearing off. He's tried and tried, but it was impossible, and that only made him angrier.

"Damn it!" he shouted into the empty halls. He should've known Clint would do something like that, he should've asked what was happening sooner, he was a scientist for the love of god, he should've known!

A small noise of distress and grief escaped Bruce's throat. He locked his hands together on his forehead and leaned his head back, swallowing that thick, painful lump in his throat as he stepped back, towards the back wall of the cell. His eyes were hot with tears, tears of fear and frustration and hate and shock and everything in between. He eventually hit the brick wall, sliding down it until his bottom hit the floor, his knees pulled up. "God damn it, Clint, why didn't I fucking know?" he choked. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, the wound on his shoulder starting to throb. Dried specks of blood still clung to the corners of his mouth and the collar of his shirt. It made sense now; they had given something to clean up his blood with so that Clint wouldn't see and go ballistic.

The one time Bruce wanted the Hulk, he couldn't have him. How ironic.

******
Clint didn't have time to preserve the last image of Bruce, for as soon as the door was shut, he was dragged down a set of stone stairs and through an eerie hallway. It seemed cliché, but at least it didn't have torches for lighting. Instead, they had a light bulb swinging from a cord every few yards. Clint had recomposed himself, now walking willingly between his 'escorts'. He concentrated on the thudding of his boots to rid his mind of the confused and broken shouts of Bruce. In time, he thought determinedly, he'll get over me. He'll be fine.

He looked up; they had reached an oddly high-tech-looking door. The shorter (not by much, though) man stepped forward, typing something into a keypad that would be put to shame by something back at the Avenger Tower. The door slid open, and Clint couldn't help but marvel at what lied inside.

Everything seemed so… shiny. That was the only way to put it. There were rows of tables full of customized bullets and guns. Clint didn't have time to look over them all before he was pushed forward. He glared at the one responsible. "I'm going, calm the fuck down." He snapped at him. Just because they let him trade didn't mean he liked them any more than before. They still took Bruce in here in the first place.

He then thought okay, maybe that wasn't such a great idea, especially after a large, beefy hand landed across his face in a slap. Lesson learned; slaps hurt a lot more when they're from a super-enhanced body-builder. He bit back a frustrated noise and carried on until they had passed nearly every sinister-looking mechanism. Suddenly, they stopped, Clint taking a few steps before he realized he needed to cease walking. He turned to the two men, looking up at them confusedly, eyebrows furrowed. He made sure to keep his snappiness and cursing to a minimum. "What'd you stop for?" The two men looked down at him, amused smirks on their faces. Clint was so caught up (not to mention he wasn't even bothering paying attention) he didn't hear the light footsteps behind him until a sharp crack rung in his ears and he fell to the ground, unconscious. The two men leaned over him, casting shadows across his still-tense face.

*****
All he felt was cold. Cold air blowing on his face, solid cold wrapped around his wrist and probably his ankles, but he couldn't feel through his now-filthy jeans and boots. Instead of like in the movies, he didn't wake up slowly, eyes fluttering, no; he instinctively tried to sit up, eyes snapping open. He drew in a quick but silent breath, the black of his vision quickly disappearing. He didn't remember getting here, and it certainly didn't look like what he last saw around him, but he was sure he knew what was happening. He looked to the side, but saw nothing. He looked everywhere one could while cuffed to a table, but saw nothing but walls and the tall, blocky device in front of him. Quickly, his sharp eyes picked up a camera installed above it and he narrowed his eyes at his, knowing he was being watched. There was a pause, filled with the rustle of Clint as he searched for some form of human life. Suddenly, a loud beep caught him off guard, pulling his attention to in front of him, where a screen had emerged from the side of the large mechanism. The machine itself was like a giant metal box with huge, dome-like speakers aimed directly for him. He knew better to call it a machine; it was a weapon.

The screen blinked black and white a few times before words were suddenly typed out on it, as if someone somewhere was typing them in manually directly to be shown on the screen. Clint read them as fast as they appeared.
"SOUND-WEAPONS TESTING IS ABOUT TO BEGIN ON SUBJECT NUMBER: #404B"
Clint blinked, glancing back at the giant speakers facing him. He was a bit nervous, for the size itself felt intimidating, but told himself to suck it up. Bruce faced these for nearly twenty-four hours, and, besides, Clint was trained to withstand any form of torture thrown at him. The thought of Bruce made him smile, a determined, fierce one. The more pain, the better it felt to know he saves Bruce from this. The screen blinked for a few more seconds.

"SUBJECT #404B, PREPARE FOR TESTING IN…"
"…3…"
"…2…"
"…1."

At first, it seemed nothing happened. Clint's expert ears could hear soft, faint clicks of gears and switches, but neither actual sound nor feeling overcame him. He was about to move his head to look around again when he felt it. No sound, but at first it was just unpleasant, then something crept into him and he began coughing. His lungs or throat didn't feel the least bit clogged or scratchy, but he couldn't stop the ragged coughing that shook his body. Eventually it became painful, for his hacking was so forceful. It was difficult to catch any air at all, his eyes watering, but he's faced much, much worse. It was surprising, yes, but the affects weren't anything that would bring him down.

But then the headache started. It crept up, starting at the back of his head and spread until it felt like it was behind his eyes. It was worse than a headache, and in no more than twenty seconds it became beyond a migraine or anything he's ever felt. Not a drop of sound escaping those speakers, but Clint squeezed his eyes shut in pain. It wasn't so much as it was too much, it was just the pain was unique and unexpected. (Migraines and headaches were one thing SHIELD couldn't replicate, unless they struck him in the head, and they couldn't risk damaging him like that; if something happened to his vision, he was useless to them. He had to learn to deal with them from the occasional hangover and concussions in battle.) He didn't notice the dribble of blood running from his nose until he took in a breath and got a mouthful of the scarlet liquid.

For a few foolish seconds, Clint thought that was all; he couldn't have been more wrong. His insides suddenly felt like they were on fire, twisting agonizingly. If it wasn't for the fact Clint hadn't eaten in days, he probably would've been sick. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead, teeth bared, stained with his own blood. The fire shifted, and he then felt like giant stones were grinding his insides. A hundred of different metaphors could have been used and it still wouldn't have covered the different kinds of pain Clint felt, each one shifting higher and higher until he could barely draw in a breath. The pain was nearly worse than anything he's ever felt; it easily topped a gunshot wound, and broken bones were dwarfed by this. Even that horrid time with Natasha, in… damn it, he couldn't even remember to breathe, let alone recall a mission. He didn't scream, he couldn't, not enough air was in his lungs for that. The pain topped anything he's ever felt, in his entire life of working for SHIELD, in his entire history of screwy missions that ended up with bullet wounds or broken bones or torture.

Just before his vision wavered and he fell into the best unconsciousness he's ever been in, a thought managed to slip its way through the thick layer of pain and hurt, and his eyes widened before slowly drifting shut.

Dear God, is this what Bruce felt?

******
Okay! I hope they aren't too OOC. I decided to split my current writing into two chapters, so you won't have to wait very long for the next one, although this one's short. If it wasn't clear enough, I tried not to make Clint submit to the pain right away- he is a highly-trained SHIELD agent. He isn't a damsel in distress; he wouldn't start writhing right away. Being slapped and hit are nothing to him. Sorry for any typos; spell check can only catch so much and I'm certainly not Hawkeye when it comes to catching mistakes.