Chapter 13

Middle-of-Nowhere, USA, is actually a pretty nice place.

Once I got over the landing (hey Heimdall! Thanks for the 2,000 foot drop!) where I had to scramble to catch myself and Natasha and watch as my dad did the same with Clint and Thor caught Steve (but there's a shield shaped dent in the roof now), I was content here.

The house itself has got to be one of – if not the – smallest house my dad owns. It looks like something you'd find in the middle of Suburbia, not surrounded by acres upon acres of woodland.

The inside looks like a family just moved out. The colors are a soothing mixture of green and brown, with big comfy couches covered in Afghan blankets. There's a small workshop, just big enough to finalize my arm, one kitchen, and somehow seven normal-sized bedrooms. There are no ranges of any sort, but my dad says we're allowed to poke holes in trees whenever we want. Immediately upon arrival, Clint disappeared and returned about two hours later to inform me that the house does – in fact – have rafters and vents, though they are a bit older and not as state-of-the-art as the ones back in New York.

The lack of an armory means all weapons must be stored in the owner's bedroom – not that anyone was going to do anything differently. All our stuff from the tower somehow got put into the right bedrooms, including my bike which rests in the garage.

I'd be okay if it weren't for that nagging voice in the back of my head telling me I'm not here for vacation, but because we're stuck in a cat-and-mouse game with a maniac god.

A~A~A

"Dad?" I call out into the mini-lab as the doors swish open and I duck just in time to avoid a flaming bit of something that flies past my head.

"In here!" a voice calls from a corner.

I walk hesitantly over to see what diabolical machine he's building now.

However, as soon as I get within a foot of his back, he pops up and covers the machine with a black sheet, rolling his chair over to another table where an arm-sized box awaits.

My dad opens the box and waves me over, revealing an arm a little bit bigger than my last one, and with a little bit more silver tinting, but otherwise, exactly the same.

My dad instructs me to lay on my stomach on a nearby empty lab table. I can hear him rustling behind me, probably for some light, before I hear his chair wheels come closer.

He rolls up my sleeve and wipes the stub of my right shoulder down with cold antiseptic wipes. He checks to make sure the long, white, scar – one of many dotting my body – on my shoulder is healed before bunching my shirt material in a clamp between my shoulder blades to keep it out of the way.

After he brings up the arm to my stub and presses them together, he attaches a vacuum tube to the meeting point to suck out any problematic air bubbles before clicking a few things and twisting a few more before I carry the familiar deadweight that is a metal arm.

His chair rolls away before coming back with a laptop and a cord with an electrolyte patch on the end.

"Hold still. This will reawaken the nano bots in your brain. It might feel a little warm, but shouldn't burn like last time."

I nod as my dad attaches the patch to the base of my head.

"Hold still…almost…" a few keys click on the laptop, which emits a few beeps and squeals, "there!"

My dad is right – it gets warm, but not the agonizing, tear-jerking burn it was the first time I got an arm attached, three years ago.

My right arm gets a bad case of pins and needles as my dad detaches the wire and sets the laptop aside.

I go through the usual trials – wiggle this, catch this, twitch that – as my dad explains how he's uploaded all the files ever made for either of my arms into Jarvis so if it were to go haywire and he wasn't there, I might be able to fix it. He's also installed a microscopic microphone where, if I use the correct authorization code, the arm will detach to keep it out of the wrong hands.

I thank my dad with a hug before leaving my dad to his one-man workshop and wander the halls to think.

Except I wince because I can't disappear too far into my head without Loki sniffing at the edges of my conscious. And when that happens, suddenly all I can see is red and it hurts, hurts, hurts.

I shake my head with a sigh as I glance at the scars on my knees, as well as the fading pink lines on my wrists, ankles, and elbows.

At least I won't be the first Avenger to have PTSD. I can guarantee that my dad, at least, thrashes in his sleep, mumbling incoherently about Loki and water and caves and Yinsen.

I'm so immersed in my thoughts that I almost bump into my boyfriend.

Who is hanging from the vent opening like a bat.

Clint pulls himself back in the vents and I accept the offered hand, pulling myself up with him.

The vents themselves aren't much of anything special, but hey, how much variation do you expect among building vents? Clint situates himself with his back up against one wall and the toes of his boots pressed against the other, with his knees pulled close to his chest.

He must have noticed my melancholy face, because a look of concern sweeps across his face. "Hey glowstick, what's wrong?"

I shake my head, not wanting to trouble him with my dark thoughts.

He just cocks an eyebrow, using one of my best expressions against me as he lifts an arm, creating the perfect space for me to curl up against him.

I sigh as I scoot closer to him and curl into him, laying my head on his chest as his arm drapes my shoulders. "I…just…I was…PTSD, Clint. I was in there for four days. And Loki, with the stick…" I shudder, causing Clint's arm to squeeze my shoulder as his other hand puts a finger at my lips.

"Taylor, shhh. Please don't go there, for your sanity and my stomach. I don't think the others would much enjoy the scent of vomit wafting through the vents. And you aren't the only one with a past, you know that?"

I nod against the soft fabric of Clint's t-shirt as his empty hand holds both of mine.

"I don't like eyes any lighter shade of blue than Steve's, I hate the circus, Natasha hates doctors, as does Bruce, Bruce also hate the army, Steve avoids ice and most planes like the plague, Thor hates snakes and flinches at any mention of his youth. Your dad doesn't have any bathtubs in any of his houses and he doesn't deal with anyone speaking primarily Arabic. See? Not the only one."

I breathe a silent huff of relief, even though I already knew most of what Clint just said,

"I'll probably be terrified of water like my dad, won't be able to be within a foot of a person and be lower that their waist for more than five seconds, I'll most likely freak at sticks longer than about two feet, and hired muscle isn't getting on my good side anytime soon. Just so you know."

Clint nods and rests his cheek on the top of my head. "Now, why don't you go to dreamland for a while? I'll be right here in case you start having any nightmares."

I nod again and yawn, letting my eyelids close as I feel Clint press a kiss into my hair.

A/N

StarksDaughter – there's your cuddling scene.

I might write a one or two shot later more about the PTSD issues of the team.

Please keep reviewing and reading!