OK, so this is another pretty dark one but I felt like it belonged close to the last. Next one will be happy, I promise! [If it isn't, you have permission to sic Lucky on me :) ] This one was heartbreaking to write because they're so much further in their relationship. I am purposefully keeping the exact nature and extent of their relationship secret since I'll be giving a more well-rounded picture of it in my next long story, but it is obvious in the story that by now they are very close.

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Shattered (Post-Avengers)

They won't let us leave the Helicarrier. The doctors say it's to keep an eye on our injuries, make sure we aren't going to suddenly get sick because of contact with alien viruses or radiation, blah, blah, blah. I know better.

Everyone's afraid. Of Clint. Of whether he's really himself again. Of whether Loki can take him back whenever he wants.

They're not exactly confident around me either. I've already proved how defensive I can be when we were getting out of the Quinjet back on the carrier. The sight of a battered and bleeding Hill there to meet us instead of Coulson almost made me break down crying, but I had to keep it together until we got to a room or I'd turn into an emotional Jell-O right there in the hangar.

That meant I wasn't paying a lot of attention to anything but putting one foot in front of the other, and when Hill turned aside to answer an urgent message from Fury I missed the agent who walked up to Clint and me. At least until he threw the first punch.

Clint staggered back into me, almost causing both of us to fall. In regular circumstances, he's barely have been shaken by the short beanpole of an agent, but after over twenty-four hours of being forced to work nonstop for Loki and then the battle that followed, he was drained. I heard the soft yelp as he collided with my shoulder and the glass shards still in his back and arms dug in painfully.

"You're nothing but a murderer. You ought to have died," our attacker hissed at Clint, and finally my brain caught up to the events, just as he lifted his hand again. My hands were moving even faster and the guy was on the ground before he knew what to do. Hill hurried back and escorted us out of the fast-forming crowd in the hangar.

The most distressing part is that Clint had never lifted a hand, or even his voice, to defend himself. The look I saw in his eyes when that agent was talking to him had been empty. Like he welcomed the punishment.

He's seemed detached like that ever since I told him about Coulson. I hadn't wanted to before the others left. We watched them walk out the hanging-by-a-single-hinge door of the Shawarma shop one by one; first Bruce, then Tony, Thor, and finally Steve, until it was me and Nat and Clint.

When I told him, it was like someone flicked a switch and shut off all the life inside him. He seemed to collapse in on himself, and it was all Nat and I could do to get him to the Quinjet when it came. And then Nat passed out on the floor from a deep wound she'd somehow managed to hide the whole time and became another mark against Clint in his own mental roster of people he'd failed.

She's stable now, and a nurse just came by to tell Clint that she's been asking for him. He never even responded. He's just sitting there on the edge of the cot in the little room we're sharing-because I threatened to stab anyone who tried to split us up-and staring at nothing.

We're probably lucky we aren't in a cell right now, but the Hulk destroyed the entire detention wing so we're being kept in what amounts to a regular crew cabin. Part of me doesn't even want to think about why this room is available.

I sit down next to Clint, no idea what to say. There's no way I can make this better. I notice that his hands are shaking, ever so slightly. I reach over to take his hand in mine and feel the rough dryness, the callouses from the countless hours of archery. His hands are so familiar to mine now that they seem to fit together without even trying.

The familiar touch seems to calm Clint a little, and he leans slightly against me, still careful to keep pressure off his bandaged shoulders. The doctors removed at least ten slivers of glass from where he'd ground them in falling through the window during the battle. He'd never even acted like there was anything wrong until Tony slapped him on the back in congratulation that we won and Clint almost yelled out loud from the pain. Typical Clint.

Less typical is that he's refusing to remove his hearing aids. Usually, after a mission gone wrong, he'll toss them aside as soon as he can and escape into that silent world where no one can follow him. But this time he's choosing not to. And I don't understand.

Is there anything… I begin to sign but I'm interrupted by Clint's hand leaving mine and grabbing my wrist in a tight hold.

"No. Talk. Please." His voice is hoarse and low, almost inaudible.

"Why?"

"So I can get his damn voice out of my head." Clint looks at me for the first time. "When it's quiet, all I hear is him."

"Okay." I don't really know what to say though, and so the silence that I now feel desperate to break falls again. "Can I-Is there-can I do anything?" I ask, fumbling like a high-school freshman in a debate class. Words have never been so hard. It's been so natural to sign with Clint I've almost forgotten that I can talk to him.

"No. Just keep talking."

So I do. I ramble on about stupid stuff like the first time I got in a car accident or the cat we used to have when I was a kid, or about the times Lucky got into trouble. Anything I can think of, no matter how trivial, to keep from letting the silence get to us.

Suddenly Clint stands up, jolting me slightly.

"Where are you going?" I ask, confused.

"Bathroom. Think that shawarma might have been a little bit off."

That's more the Clint I know, and I smile. Just a little. He disappears through the door and I lie back, wincing at the bruises and cuts hiding under my standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sweatpants and shirt that I grabbed from sickbay to replace my destroyed uniform. I'm not looking forward to making some of the more intense signs with that big gash on my upper arm.

There's a sudden crash from inside the bathroom and I stand up, startled. "Clint, are you all right?"

There's no answer and I shove the door open, grateful he hasn't locked me out. Clint is standing in front of where the mirror used to be, hands covered in blood. The mirror-or what is left of it-is only a few shards of reddened glass left on the wall. The rest is a twisted mockery of tiny diamonds scattered over the floor.

"What happened?" I ask, looking at the mess.

"I-I can't, Hen." Clint stares down at the blood dripping from his hands onto the glittering shards of glass. "I can't look into my own eyes and not see him. I can't look at myself and not see a man who killed his own friends. Henley, what did I DO?" His voice rises almost to a wail.

"Not one thing, Clint. It wasn't you, you hear me?" I stand so he can't help but see me. "You couldn't stop it."

"But I almost killed you. And Nat. and Phil is dead because I led them all here. Told them how to get inside. Their blood's on my hands."

"Then it's on mine too. Because I was too scared to try to stop him like you did. I laid there and I let him take you and I never did a damn thing. Not one thing." Finally, all the guilt that I've been holding back is rushing out. I keep seeing Loki walk away with him, and myself, lying there half-awake, and pretending to be dead until Fury pulled me out from under the broken desk. Why didn't I do something? Why didn't I let him take me too? Why?

It doesn't matter that I was concussed, that I probably wasn't thinking straight, I blame myself for not doing something. It's not guilt anywhere on the same level as Clint is feeling, but I need him to know I feel it too. That he's not alone in wishing things had played out differently. "I failed you. And I'm sorry."

"You did what you had to do to stay alive. That's what you're trained to do. God, Hen, I don't even want to think of what he would have done to you if he'd taken you too…You did the right thing."

"But it doesn't feel like it." I know he's right, though. The thought of Loki having absolute control of me, of him making me do whatever he wants, must be sickening to him. It's not like I've never done anything a bit-crazy-for the sake of salvaging a mission, but it was always of my own free will. And Clint's killed before, but it's always been his call.

But still, part of me wishes it had been me instead. I'd take it all, any of it, to save Clint this kind of pain. Or if it had been both of us, at least I could honestly say that I understood. But I never really can. This will always be part of who he is now, just another thing that I can't quite reach. But we'll be okay.

I must have said the last part out loud, because Clint pulls back a little and looks at me, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Really? How can you even say that? How can it ever be 'okay' again?"

He begins to shake, crying silently. I do the only thing left to do. I wrap my arms around him, and hold him close, hoping that by holding him together I can keep him from shattering like the glass all around us.

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A/N: (Sorry for the length of this one!)

I was writing this and had one idea of how I wanted it to go and then the thought of Clint being trapped in the quiet in his own head with nothing to drown out the memory of Loki's voice just hit. The thought of the one thing that's always let him escape all the bad things from his life becoming the thing he can't escape broke my heart. I also had a point where I wrote myself into a corner because I couldn't decide if Loki should have taken Henley too or not. I can't imagine her not being at the facility when everything goes wrong, but I don't know how to work out Loki taking her, and if he did, as I've suggested in their dialogue, it would probably make the story really, really dark. Also, I don't think she'd be emotionally prepared to help Clint deal with anything if that happened. So I'm leaning towards her getting knocked out, as I described, in the initial attack and then Fury helping her get out. But if there's an overwhelming response of wanting it the other way, I'll write another story and see if I can make that work out better, and then decide which way I want it to go.

Okay, sorry again for the long note but I figured I'd throw that option out there because I can imagine wither scenario equally feasible. I promise the next part will be more lighthearted!