"I told her once I wasn't good at anything. She told me survival is a talent." -Susanna Kaysen

Clint wakes up gasping for breath more often than not these nights, a scream trying to claw it's way out of his throat, his vision blurry and tinged with blue.

Tonight is no different, though the nightmare is.

He wakes suddenly; no warning, just a sharp intake of breath through his nose, right hand shakily sneaking to the underside of his pillow, tightly gripping the butt end of the gun tucked away.

Clint is no stranger to nightmares, to the horrors his own bent mind will concoct, and though he knows a gun is poor protection against the shadows of nightmares, it nevertheless provides him with an instinctive sense of security, of safety. And isn't that just a bit fucked, he thinks, that a gun, an object meant to instill fear in the masses, a weapon of destruction, of death, serves as his security blanket? The universe, he decides, has a morbid and perverse sense of humor.

He's never dreamed of killing Coulson before, of slicing through his chest as smoothly as he would cheese, the handle of Loki's spear a cold thrumming weight in his hands. His brain had never before so readily provided these images. The thin line of blood spilling from the edges of thin lips. The bright red smeared mark left on the wall of the Helicarrier, a memory, a statement, an attack, a message; a promise.

It isn't until he shivers at the memory that he realizes he is drenched in a cold sweat, sweat slicked hair plastered to his face, clothes sticking to his skin. It's been a month since the Chitauri attack, a month since his mind was assaulted, his body invaded, his will eviscerated.

His fingers are clenched around his gun in a painful white knuckled grip. He closes his eyes and, for a moment, forces himself to breathe in an attempt to cage the stirring panic rising within.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He's safe.

He's in his apartment in Stark Tower, or rather Avengers Tower— has been since a couple of weeks after the invasion.

He needs to remind himself.

There have been too many occasions where he'd woken up believing himself captured, in unfamiliar territory, would shoot at shadows, and commence his frantic search for Natasha; both his subconscious and conscious refuse to leave her behind, no matter the scenario.

Slowly releasing the gun, he untangles himself from his sheets and heads to the walk-in closet set in the east wall of his bedroom. It's overwhelmingly spacious; Clint knows if he were to hang all his clothes there would still be too much space left over, too many open spaces. He takes off his sweat-drenched shirt, tosses it beside his open bag and rummages around for a clean fresh one. He hasn't bothered unpacking.

It's three in the morning and while normally he would head to the personal shooting range Stark built for him, he finds himself too worn, too tired, too weary. Instead, he makes his way out of his apartment and into the elevator, pressing the button that will take him down to the communal floor of the tower.

He isn't sure what he is looking for when he arrives. If he were truthful with himself, he would admit to a lack of significant time being spent in this space, preferring to divide his time between his apartment, the range, and Nat's floor. If he were truthful with himself, he would admit his choices had nothing to do with preference, and everything to do with avoidance.

The elevator opens to a part of the tower that is open like no other. There is a communal kitchen that spans the far west wall, a long steel dining table off to the side. The living room is in the center; the entertainment system spanning the north wall that is entirely made up of reinforced glass. Even though it's three am, the floor isn't shrouded in darkness like he expects. Rather, the lights are dim enough for him to easily find his way. He can see there is someone in the kitchen, sitting atop one of the chairs facing the lengthy counter. For a moment, he thinks about silently stepping back behind the steel doors of the elevator, making his way back up to the confines of his floor.

"That you, Legolas?" Clint hears, mentally berating himself for ever leaving his floor at all.

Ambling out of the elevator, he silently makes his way over to the billionaire, taking up the empty seat beside him.

"Hey, Stark," he says, his tone neutral. Clint learned long ago never to show his weaknesses, to keep his walls up at all times, regardless of who was around. Coulson and Natasha were the only exceptions to the rule, thus living proof of the rule itself.

With a snort, Stark replies, turning to him, tumbler in hand, "We've saved the world from an evil destructive horde of aliens and one crazed megalomaniac god, pretty sure we entered first name territory somewhere way back up the road there, sweet cheeks. Probably 'round the time said megalomaniac god stupidly began attacking New York, but hey, who's keeping track of the interpersonal interactive progress of Nick Fury's ragtag superhero team?"

Clint knows Stark isn't drunk for all he sounds like it; he read Nat's character file on him, knows Stark is an ingenious rambler, the type to talk endlessly without saying anything of use, without revealing a single thing of himself, words spewing from his mouth on every exhaled breath, going off on expert tangents winded and lengthy enough to distract even skilled interrogators. But Clint sees better from a distance, and even though he hasn't spent much time with anyone from his team other than Natasha, doesn't mean he hasn't been watching, hasn't been paying attention to the new people he is surrounded by. He can hear the hidden words of Stark's rant, we may have saved the world together, but we are not a team. As bitter as the thought may be, Clint can't help but agree.

His shoulders tense slightly when he finds a full crystal tumbler of whiskey being placed right in front of him. Picking it up (more out of habit rather than an intention of drinking it) and swirling the liquid content inside, he finally turns to Stark, straightforwardly meeting his gaze. He looks tired, Clint decides. Even in this dim lighting Clint can see the weary lines that surround his mouth, the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, the creases of his faded Black Sabbath shirt, the grease stains marring his torn up jeans. Glancing around, he sees an empty mug - of what Clint presumes was coffee - a little ways away from Stark atop the kitchen counter. He looks disheveled in a way only being cooped up in his workshop for innumerable hours in an engineering binge produces.

"You look like shit, Stark. When's the last time you got a decent night's sleep?"

Stark runs a hand through his Byzantine hair, "Huh, can't really remember. Few days ago maybe? Been struggling with a recent project. Honestly, Merida, did a bow and arrow have to be your weapon of choice? According to SHIELD you're the 'world's greatest marksman,' couldn't you just have chosen a pretty gun and been done with it, instead of going all antique on my ass? I swear, you people enjoy making my life even more difficult than it already is. Uh, you gonna drink that?" He finishes with a pointed look at the still full tumbler Clint is holding in his hand.

Looking down at the glass, Clint makes a decision he will later blame on impeded mental functioning directly resulting from his severe lack of sleep. "I, uh, don't really drink," he states somewhat awkwardly, setting the tumbler down quietly. He's thankful the engineer decidedly ignores the slight tremors running through his hands. "I also have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, Stark. What does it matter to you that I prefer a bow and arrow to a gun?"

"You really don't pay attention to our briefings, do you? Can't say I blame you, though. Hell, I zone out more often than not - I have far better things to do with my time than listening to Fury talking about his plans to make us a more cohesive team and all that fun jazz. But I would've thought the part of me putting myself in charge of the Avengers' weapons was something that would've filtered in through that tiny bird brain of yours there, Katniss."

Clint remembers; the briefing was last week, held in one of the many conference rooms within the vast confines of SHIELD Remembers Stark saying he didn't trust SHIELD with their weapons, claiming he could do a better job of not only fixing them, but improving them. Rogers was even inclined to agree, muttering something about Phase Two Clint didn't understand and didn't want to. Stark basically took over the R&D Avengers Initiative sector, much to the grim disappointment of the SHIELD scientists. But Clint designed his own bow and arrows, only sending his design specs to SHIELD's R&D department in order for them to produce them. He thought Stark knew that.

"I design my own bows and arrows, Stark. No need to worry your pretty little genius head over little ole me," he ends in a slight mocking tone.

At the mention of this, Stark's eyebrows predictably rise up, perilously close to his hairline. Clint receives a similar reaction every time someone finds out he designs his own weapons. He typically finds them a hilarious sight and can hardly curve his impulse of telling people just how utterly ridiculously they look, except this time he feels none of that. He feels tired, tired of having so few people believe he is actually capable of such feats, that he is more than a mindless hired gun. Even when he was a freelance assassin he didn't just take any job available, not even when he could have certainly used the money. If a job felt wrong, off in any way, if he felt the mark didn't deserve to meet the end of one of his arrows, he never took it.

"Seriously? You telling me all those trick arrows of yours are your own design? Damn. I knew you had a great tactical mind, what with the attack on the Helicarrier and all - great virus there by the way - but didn't know you had a knack for engineering there, Legolas. What other fun stuff has Super Secret Spy School taught you?"

Clint is taken aback, struggling to hang on to what's left of his composure. He shouldn't be surprised, Nat's report gave the acute impression Stark was one of a kind. Clint thinks he is starting to see what she might have meant by that, even if she initially may have meant it as an insult.

"Uh, thanks," he answers a bit hesitantly. "This wasn't something they taught me though, it's just something I've kind of always done since I took up my bow. What's giving you so much trouble, anyway?" He doesn't mention that growing up in the circus he had to make most of his arrows by hand because there wasn't enough money to purchase a new set for him when the old wore out.

"I've been trying to modify your explosive arrows, give the blast a wider radius, you know, more boom for less buck. But admittedly, I don't know enough about bows and arrows and your shooting style to know how much weight I can add onto either the shaft or arrowhead until the system is destabilized to the point where you can't make a straight shot."

"Are you going for manually denoted arrows or are you designing the type that go off on impact?"

"Manually, can't have stray arrows blowing up things that shouldn't go boom - oh, don't look at me like that, I know you have perfect aim and all that, but that's no defense against someone just swatting away one of your arrows out of their way, now is it? What does it matter, anyways?"

"Manually detonated arrows have the extra weight of the receiver. If the weight is already too much on the arrowhead or the upper part of the shaft, then you can add the receiver to the nock and run a thin wire down the inside of the shaft to meet the explosive at the end. What-" Clint trails off at the slight manic look he can see on Stark's face as he slides off his stool, promptly downs the rest of his drink, a sleek black StarkPad seemingly conjuring in his other hand. His stomach curls uncomfortably; Natasha's warned him about that look.

"JARVIS, fire up the workshop, pull up the schematics of Hawkeye's new arrows, and let's have some music playing, the night is far from over, babe."

"As you wish, my dear," responds the AI with what Clint suspects is a hint of fondly exasperation.

"Stark what are you—"

"Come on, Legolas," he says, tugging Clint by the arm down the dim lighted hall to the elevator. "You're going to appreciate this, I've got all the pretty little toys to fulfill your heart's desires."

Once in the elevator, they immediately begin the descent to their destination without having even pressed a button. Clint will never admit just how impressed he is with Stark's AI; JARVIS is by far the most advanced AI out there, and being impressed by the AI meant he was impressed with Stark himself which, yeah he was (it was hard not to be), but the man had a big enough ego as it was; this was not a fire Clint needed to feed.

A minute later, the doors open to reveal a wall of, what Clint is astonished to note, is clear adamantium glass. Where Stark got enough of the rare and expensive material and how he managed to convert it into a clear glass form, is something Clint thinks Fury is dying to know so he can possibly cover the entire Helicarrier with a thin layer of it.

At the door, Stark types in a code onto a touchscreen panel set off to the side, places his hand against a scanner, and leans in to have his retina scanned.

Seeing his raised eyebrow, Stark says, "I decided to upgrade security after - well yeah. Anyways, after you Merida," he finishes stepping off to the side, allowing Clint to walk in through the now open door.

If there were a physical representation of Stark's mind, Clint thinks, his lab would fit the bill. The space is largely open and vast. There is a steel "U" shaped workbench set in the middle, a single sleek black leather chair set before it, holographic screens floating above. Bits and pieces of tech are strewn about everywhere, among them numerous arrowheads and shafts. Down on the south side, there are two diagonal lines of various model cars; Clint recognizes a 2011 white Tesla Roadster and a matte metallic blue Jaguar XKR-S Coupe. AC/DC's "If You Want Blood (You've Got It)" blares from the speakers. Clint wonders if the floors and walls are reinforced with adamantium as well.

"So, about these receivers," Starks begins, strutting to the workbench, flicking his hand, and enlarging the holographic schematics in his hands, "you said to place them on the arrow's nock if I had too much weight in front. How much is too much weight here, Barton? And how much can these receivers weigh if I'm placing them on the nocks? I can't imagine the tail end of an arrow can handle that much weight and still fly steadily."

Clint glances at the schematics hanging in the air, "Are you making the arrow shafts out of fiberglass, Stark?"

Without bothering to look up from his own set of schematics, Stark replies, "Yeah, why? Fiberglass is great, sturdy material. Not as easy to shatter."

Clint shakes his head. "It's too heavy to be adding all of these extra things onto it. Besides, fiberglass is best for bow fishing. Make the shafts out of carbon, it's lighter, and allows you to adjust the weight as needed. Do you have the schematics for my bow?"

"Of course," he replies in a slightly offended tone, pulling up another holographic screen and tossing it Clint's way.

"Are you playing AC/DC's greatest hits or something here, Stark?" Clint asks, letting a hint of amusement enter his tone, when the sound of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" start coming through the workshop speakers.

"Why, yes Merida. Nice of you to recognize. I'm relieved to know you aren't a completely uncultured swine like the rest of 'em."

Rolling his eyes, Clint begins looking over the specs for his bow and the new explosive tipped arrows Tony was planning, making corrections and adjustments where he sees fit, explaining to Tony that any arrow he uses has to be compatible with the design and feel of his bow. They spend the next several hours like this, working on design specs, Tony sitting in his chair, Clint sitting atop the bench, AC/DC's greatest hits blasting through the speakers. It's been a while since Clint has been able to focus so intently on something other than his shooting since the invasion; he welcomes the relaxed feel of his muscles and the razor sharp focus of his mind; he can breathe down here.

When Clint finally checks the time, it is eight in the morning. Over the last five hours he and Stark have figured out the weight parameters for the new explosive arrows and even managed to commence the bare schematic designs for EMP arrows as well as for ones tipped in acid (Clint will admit to feeling weary of carrying those around).

They've progressed from AC/DC to Led Zeppelin, and the initial sultry tones of "What Is And What Should Never Be" are the only sounds within the workshop. Clint looks up when he hears a whirring sound, only to find one of Stark's robots headed his way, a small white something in its claw like hand. Finding a small white bottle being precariously set next to his thigh he glances over at Stark, he can see the man is seemingly immersed in the schematics in front of him; thankfully, Clint knows better.

"What are these?" he asks, picking the bottle up and reading the label.

"Sleeping pills," Stark replies, eyes never straying from the images in front of him. "Don't really know how they expect us to sleep like babies after everything that happened. These, uh, usually help me, when I can't sleep, which tends to be most nights, but that's beside the point. Take 'em. I have more. Poppin' two usually does me right in. Now thank Dum-E before he dumps a smoothie on you, don't think he won't, the cheeky little bastard."

Gripping the bottle tightly in one hand, Clint looks over at Dum-E who - for a robot - strikingly resembles a puppy waiting for a treat after delivering the newspaper. "Uh, thanks, Dum-E." He's met with a high-pitched whirring sound.

"He doesn't seem as advanced as JARVIS," Clint comments, watching the bot make his way around the workshop picking up random scraps of metal and tech here and there.

"That's because he's not," Stark pipes up, swiveling his chair to look over at Clint. "I built Dum-E when I was a teenager at MIT, must have been like seventeen, I think. JARVIS came a few years after, then You and Butterfingers."

"Of course you were a seventeen year-old at MIT." He knows this is right around the time Stark lost his parents.

Stark shrugs and swivels his chair back to continue working on the schematics for the new acidic arrow.

"Tony?" Clint asks, a well of unidentifiable emotion rising within him.

At the mention of his name, the engineer turns to look back at Clint, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Thanks," Clint says, allowing the honesty and gratitude he feels to color his tone.

Tony's brown eyes soften a little as he nods, reaching in front of him and enlarging the schematics to the acid arrows.

"So, if we're really going to try these arrows out, we'll need to make sure your quiver can hold all of these different arrows together without explosions happening and acid dripping down your back."

"Wait, how are you even planning on containing the acid within the arrows themselves?"

"I was thinking a small container lined with Alloy 20. It's corrosion resistant and-"

"Solves the problem of having any unwanted potential cracks. Smart."

"Resident genius here, of course it's smart."

"But if you're planning on putting this container on the arrowhead or upper shaft, we're going to have to find something to place on the nock or lower part of the shaft to balance out the extra weight of the alloy. And just how much sulfuric acid are we planning on me carrying on my person? Because I gotta tell ya, the idea of having acid dripping down my back is worse than the idea of having the Hulk punch me straight in the face."

"Awww and ruin your dashing good looks, Legolas? I took you for a vainer man than that."

"Fuck you, Stark," Clint shoots back, laughing; he can't seem to help himself. "Not all of us can afford great plastic surgeons to make us look all pretty again after getting our faces bashed in."

"Ah, you wound me, Merida," Tony says, holding a hand to his chest, above his arc reactor, while gasping as if actually wounded, mirth filling his eyes. "I'm au naturel, baby," he continues, with a wink, a smirk on his lips.

"Anyhow," continues Tony, flicking his hands, gathering all of the files, "how 'bout we continue this some other time? Pepper should be coming over in the next hour and I desperately need a shower, I don't even want to know what I smell like."

"Exceedingly gross, Sir, the essence of motor grease and oil hangs about you," comes JARVIS' voice.

"Dammit, JARVIS You're supposed to lie in order to preserve my self-esteem," Tony shoots back.

"My sincerest apologies, Sir, but you have not programmed me to lie," continues the AI and Clint can swear he hears a tinge of sarcasm in the words.

Tony stops mid-stride for a moment and then guffaws. "Ok, now I know you're just fucking with me JARV."

Clint hops down from his perch on the workbench, pockets the bottle of sleeping pills, and makes his way to the door alongside Tony. "You programmed your AI to lie?" he asks, because that seems like a counterproductive thing to do to a system also serving as your primary form of security.

"Technically, no," Tony replies, chuckling as he goes through his security measures to lock down his lab (apparently only a code is needed to lock the doors), "he's a learning AI and for years all he had was me to learn from. You can only imagine the things he picked up from a twenty something-year-old Tony Stark. Okay, lets shut it down, Jay."

The lab room immediately grows dark. At first, Clint thinks it's a result of JARVIS turning off all the lights, but upon closer inspection he can see that it's the adamantium glass that has grown dark. Clint can't help but widen his eyes in surprise and look over at Tony.

"After Vanko and Hammer," Tony explains, a strange light in his eyes, "well let's just say I went through a creative engineering binge. A lot of interesting things came out of the weeks I spent holed up in my workshop. Not even Pepper could get me to come out, and she's usually the only one who can manage it. Don't know how. Miracle, how our relationship didn't crash and burn then, considering how little she saw of me. Anyways, Fury doesn't know the half of it, for all that the bastard keeps trying to hack me again."

Even though he can't see him, Clint can hear the smug smirk on his lips. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he waits until they step into the elevator to say, "Fury never technically hacked you. That was, uh, that was me actually."

"An engineer and a hacker? You're a man after my own heart, Barton. I swear, if I wasn't with Pepper," he ends, waggling his eyebrows in Clint's direction. "That something Super Secret Spy School taught you or just another thing you knew how to do and they just took advantage?"

"The latter," Clint says sniggering, not bothering to pretend he isn't amused by Tony. "Wasn't aware you played for both teams, Stark. Think your file needs to be updated."

"Haven't you heard, sweet cheeks? I play for any team that has a fine enough ass. One of these days," Tony says, giving Clint a searching glance, "you are going to tell me how you learned all these things. I've read your file too, you know, but it's like you didn't exist before SHIELD. I could do a more extensive search, widen the parameters, hack a few government agencies, but that seems too invasive and, while others may not believe this, I do actually have boundaries—I just tend not to heed them. Besides, it would defeat the purpose of this whole living together thing we've got going on. The dear Director himself wants us to bond as a team, after all."

That's because I was a ghost before SHIELD, Clint thinks. Instead he says, "We'll see about that, Stark," and walks out of the elevator onto the living room of his floor.

When Clint moved into Stark tower it wasn't to a small bland one-bedroom apartment like the one he had moved into when he first joined SHIELD what seems like eons ago. Apparently, Tony had each floor customized to each Avenger; Clint knows there is a reason Tony gave him one of the highest floors available—second only to Tony's. Vaguely, he wonders whether Rogers' floor is themed in 1940s era style.

Clint's floor is all open spaces, tall archways, walls painted in a soft brown color that take on a light earthy hue when the sunlight enters through the large polished plate glass windows. His own personal kitchen is set against the east side of the wide floor plan. A soft ivory sofa sits in front of a large flat screen tv over by the west side, and as Clint roams his eyes over it he is unsurprised at finding a bare footed Natasha perched atop it, long legs placed perfectly in a lotus position, a well worn book opened between them, red hair framing her face.

Without looking up from her book, she softly states, "You weren't in your room."

"I was down in Tony's workshop." At the lifted eyebrow she sends his way, he amends, "He needed some help designing some new arrows, seeing as he knows jack shit about them." He knows her well enough to tell the slight pinch of her lips means she is holding back a smile; he also knows she noticed the use of Stark's first name.

She cocks her head, "Doesn't he know you design your own weapons?"

He shrugs, walking over and sitting on the arm of the couch, acting like the entire situation is no big deal. "Now he does."

His casual remark results in her sitting up even straighter, untangling her legs, closing her book, shifting her body in his direction, a searching yet cautious look in her eyes because she knows. He doesn't let other people design his weapons, even held out for months against allowing SHIELD scientists to produce them; Coulson had to convince him that he simply wouldn't have the time to create them himself before he relented. He is too tired and hollow to think about the reasons he has deemed Tony an exception to the rule.

Nudging her head in the direction of his bedroom, face a blank mask once again, she says, "Go change, we're sparring."

Groaning inwardly, he heads towards his open bedroom, not sparing a glance to the mess that is his bed, in search of his own workout tights and a t-shirt. He should have known just from the way she was dressed: black workout tights and an orange sports bra. It was Monday morning, what better thing had they to do at this time than spar? They haven't had a mission since the invasion took place (Clint suspects Fury believes they've earned an extended leave of absence for helping save the world) and while it feels odd to have as much down time as they do, Clint is actually somewhat enjoying the free time. He can't remember the last time they were free to spar on a Monday morning.

A few minutes later, they are walking through the glass doors of the expansive communal team gym. There is a formidable boxing ring taking up the far southwest corner, a Kevlar reinforced punching bag off to the side (everyone knows it was especially designed by Tony for Rogers on account of his post-serum strength), a rock-climbing wall spanning the entire east wall, and a sparring mat in the center of it all. They have the gym all to themselves at this time; Clint knows Tony is busy getting ready for Pepper's arrival, Roger's has already gone a few rounds with the punching bag and is now out for his ritual morning run, Bruce isn't one for using the gym unless it's a team workout, and Thor does not seem to believe in rising before noon unless there is an emergency requiring the god's presence.

Clint and Natasha both set their towels and water bottles off to one side of the mat, walk towards the middle of it, and immediately take up a fighting stance. He turns his body slightly to the side, left leg facing the front, right leg off to the back, knees moderately bent, hands closed into fists held faintly below eye level. Natasha's stance mirrors his, except that her hands are open in front of her, palms parallel to each other. Her stance allows for quicker movements and easier take downs. They immediately start circling each other, each searching for an opening.

Natasha fights like she's been trained for it (she was), all sleek lines and unhesitating fluid movements and perfect stance. Her every move is controlled and perfectly executed, rarely resorting to dirty tricks, because she's just that good. She's both beautiful and deadly when she fights; barely breaks a sweat when fighting a normal person. Clint, on the other hand, is all about dirty fighting. Growing up an orphan and in the circus provided him with the life lessons that resulted in him being a decent fighter out of sheer necessity rather than want. His stance isn't perfect, but it's strong. His hits may not be as controlled, but they always still seem to hit their mark. Natasha fights, and she makes it look like a well-choreographed dance, as simple and smooth as inhaling a breath. Clint makes it look like a bar fight. He's gotten better though, since sparring with her. His lines are sleeker, his hits quicker; with her he can fall into the dance she seems to effortlessly choreograph. But still, when in the thick of a difficult fight, he gets uncontrolled, loses the poise Natasha taught him, and the dirty fighting from his younger days emerges.

When Natasha lunges, he immediately moves to block it, planting his feet, and quickly sidestepping out of her range. They move like this for several minutes, one of them lunging forward with a punch or a kick and the other either blocking the hit or sidestepping it. This is their own personal dance and Clint revels in it. Sparring with Natasha never fails to clear his mind of the perpetual shadows that lurk within. When they first began sparring together, Natasha would beat him flat down onto the mat within the first five minutes for all of SHIELD to witness. Clint cannot recall a more humbling experience. Now, several years into their partnership, the iconic moment is still talked about in the halls of SHIELD, the difference now, though, is that he can hold his own - for a lot longer at least. He's sent staggering when Natasha lands a strong roundhouse kick squarely onto his shoulder, and as he struggles for just those few seconds to regain his footing, Natasha seizes her opening, twisting her body in the air. Clint, thinking she is going for the classic restraining thigh maneuver, plants his feet a slight width apart, puts his hands up, palms open, in the hopes of catching a leg, when she pushes off of him only to quickly land behind him and swiftly kick his feet right from under him. Natasha may not fight dirty, but she is sneaky, which may actually be worse.

He's been laying flat on his back atop the mat floor for a couple of seconds, catching his breath, when his line of vision is filled with two red and yellow objects.

"Here," Natasha says, shoving what he can now see is a small strawberry yogurt and a banana at him, along with a plastic spoon. "Eat."

Wordlessly, he sits up, legs outstretched in front of him, and begins to unwrap the foil covering of the yogurt. He knows Natasha worries about him, more so now than before; he's had rough missions before, but he's never been unmade like this. She has. Every morning she arrives on his floor, seeking him out, making sure he eats, even when he insists he isn't hungry (she knows all too well how his body responds to stress), making sure he showers instead of just laying in a blanket tangled heap in his bed all day like he wishes he could, desperately trying to ameliorate the hollow feeling in his chest.

"Thanks, Nat," he says as he finishes the yogurt, grabs the banana, and begins peeling back the skin. She's sitting cross-legged in front of him.

"Clint," she says so softly he almost misses it, his name barely a whisper leaving her lips. "It'll get easier," she continues, in that same faint tone; he can't bring himself to meet her eyes. "Getting unmade like you did, it's hard, possibly one of the worst things anyone can ever experience. I know you feel like you can't trust yourself, like you're drifting, your feet on unsteady ground; putting those pieces of yourself back together will take time. Just know that you can trust me, when you feel like you can't trust yourself."

He looks up at her now, meets her green eyes directly, because she has to know, must know. "I trust you, Nat," he tells her, voice clear and firm, "I never stopped trusting you."

"Then talk to me, Clint." Any other time he would have joked about never having heard this imploring tone from her. Distantly, a part of his mind wonders how messed up he must be for her to get the closest she does to begging. "We've been here for weeks now. I know you still haven't unpacked."

"I can't talk about this now, Nat," he says, eyes dropping to the floor, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Clint."

"I'm...Christ, I'm still putting myself together here, Tasha. I don't...I don't know how to come back from this, okay? I know it wasn't me, but fuck, I remember it all Nat, and I can't… Fuck." He's vaguely aware he has crushed what remained of the banana in his hand.

Grabbing his free hand in her smaller softer one, she waits until he looks up at her to say, "We'll figure it out, okay? Don't run from this, Clint." He looks down at their joined hands, at the scrapes still healing across both their knuckles, at the tiny thin scars that litter their fingers from missions past.

He can hear the hidden words: don't leave. He isn't shocked, she knew, of course she did. He may see better from a distance, but Natasha didn't need distance; she saw all. He's thought about bolting, about grabbing his unpacked bag in the middle of the night, simply slipping out of the tower, taking out money from his numerous bank accounts, and holing himself up in one of his safe houses. The need is a restless itch against his skin, yearning to be scratched; no matter how open the spaces of the tower may be, he still feels trapped, confined, like an animal in a cage. He came here with one foot already out the door. He's aware SHIELD is keeping an eye on him, monitoring him for any signs of Loki's spell reemerging. Keeps receiving summons to head over on to medical, claiming he needs to be examined since he neither slept nor ate while under the Asgardian god's control. It's bullshit; Clint knows they are itching for a blood sample, which is why he throws each summons in the trash as soon as it's in hand. He remembers "You have heart" and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

Clint comes back to himself when Natasha hastily yanks him up to his feet by the arm, "Come on. Let's get you a real meal." Her tone is neutral, it's usual firm cadence.

They make their way over to the communal kitchen, Natasha's blatant attempt to get him to socialize. When they arrive, however, it is to the sound of two rising voices; one of them clearly Tony's. Clint glances over at Natasha; her expression is blank, her displeasure only expressed by the down turned corners of her lips.

Pepper and Tony are standing in the middle of the kitchen; Pepper in a black pencil skirt, silver blouse, striking black and red Louboutin heels, her hair in a simple elegant ponytail. Tony, on the other hand, is wearing a black AC/DC t-shirt, jeans, and is barefooted; he is leaning against the steel kitchen countertop, cradling a mug of coffee in his hands that proclaims, "Mechanical engineers do it with a ball and detent," a scowl on his face.

"I don't need to be there, Pepper, I don't want to. Hell, that was the whole point of making you CEO! So I wouldn't have to deal with these things."

"Tony. You may not be CEO anymore, but SI is still yours. Not only are you majority shareholder, you're Tony Stark, you're the face of SI and head of R&D. Since terminating weapons productions, a good percentage of our main revenue comes from what you produce Tony, you know this," she retorts, sounding exasperated.

"Pep, Pepper, Pep. Come on. Let's just forget this, go to dinner, spend some time in the city, you and me."

"Yes, let's go to dinner, the board of directors' dinner. Tony—"

"Hey there, Wonder Twins!" Tony exclaims loudly when he notices their arrival, cutting Pepper off mid sentence.

Hand rubbing the bridge of her nose, Pepper says, "I expect to see you at that dinner, Tony, the board members need to know you are still dedicated to this company, your company," and stalks off towards the elevator, sending an "Agents Barton, Romanoff," along with a polite nod in their direction, a strained smile on her lips.

"Trouble in paradise, Stark?" Clint mockingly asks once the CEO is out of earshot.

"Just, you know, typical billionaire problems - oh wait, I guess you wouldn't know," Tony shoots back. "Anyways, nothing to see here kids, move along."

"You do know you're not that much older than us, right Stark?" Tasha says, walking towards the refrigerator.

"Semantics, Romanoff," he says, waving away her words with a flick of a hand, as he pours more coffee into his mug. "Or should I say Romanova?" he asks as an afterthought.

"Oh, god, please tell me there's still more coffee left," Clint hears Banner speak up. He's standing at the edge of the kitchen, in rumpled pants and a simple light blue t-shirt, faint stubble along his chin and cheeks. Clint frowns; he hadn't heard him approaching.

"Thank god," Banner says as Tony wordlessly passes him the half filled coffee pot and a green mug with the words "I break physics on the daily: I defy the principle of mass conservation" etched on its side. Clint wonders whether Tony created - or rather commissioned the creation - of similar mugs for the rest of the Avengers.

"Stay up all night down at the lab again, Bruciekins?" Tony asks the other scientist grinning.

With a yawn, Bruce replies, "Yeah. Started examining the molecular structure of the Chitauri. I sent the analysis over to you."

"Remind me again why we, a mechanical engineer and a physicist, are doing work better suited for a biologist?" Tony inquires aloud.

"Because you and the good Doctor over here are - dare I say - two of the best minds in the world, and besides you have the clearance. Minimizes paperwork," Clint helpfully supplies, handing over the carton of eggs to Natasha who is cooking at the stove. When she sends him a stern look, sighing, he unearths a pan of his own from the numerous cabinets and begins cracking eggs.

"Not to mention, you do hold a PhD in chemical engineering, Tony," Bruce adds.

"Seriously dude, how many degrees do you have?" Clint asks as he makes eggs just the way he likes them: sunny side up.

Looking over at Tony, he sees him standing next to Bruce, sipping his coffee, a thoughtful look on his face. "Huh, five, maybe? I'm not sure. I took a vacation once, got bored, and just went back to school for a while. Gained a few degrees that summer."

Both Clint and Bruce stare unabashedly at Tony, he even earns a searching glare from Natasha.

"What's everyone staring at Stark for?" Says Steve standing on the outskirts of the kitchen, looking from Tony to Bruce to Clint to Natasha and back again, confusion plainly written in the lines of his face. He's wearing beige khaki shorts and a white t-shirt, his blonde hair still wet from his shower.

"Don't worry Capsicle, they're only admiring my spectacular brilliance."

Clint snorts, returning to his task, "You wish, Stark. We're just wondering at how hopeless you are that you can't even manage to take a proper vacation."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tony frown at this and, for a moment, he wonders whether he alluded to something negative in the engineer's life. But as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Tony is all smiles, talking with Bruce about the Chitauri's molecular structure.

"Since when do you cook for the rest of the team?" Clint curiously asks his partner while he cracks another egg into the pan. It isn't uncommon for them to cook for each other, especially during joint missions, but cooking for the rest of the Avengers, is well, admittedly odd, and definitely not something he thought he would ever see her doing, not to mention time consuming.

"It's my day to cook breakfast," she replies calmly, flipping the pancakes in her long flat pan.

"Okay...since when do we have scheduled cooking days? And why wasn't I told about this?"

"Because before now, Bird Brain, you've been holed up in your own floor." Tony says, easily jumping into their conversation.

Before Clint can open his mouth, Tony continues, "And to answer your initial question, we started doing this after we realized that without these joint meal times there is a distinct possibility we may not see each other, even though we live together. Seriously, during that first week here, Bruce was the only one of you I saw, and that was only because we're working on this Chitauri stuff for Fury. Figured the least we could is meet for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

A part of Clint wants to protest this, hide himself away from these people, but then he remembers last night, and the sleeping pills Tony wordlessly gave him, no questions asked, and Tasha's soft voice promising they would figure this out, asking him not to run. He opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to find Natasha's own clear steady ones. Taking a breath, he says, "So, when is it my day to make breakfast?"

He expects Natasha's subtle, yet warm, smile. What he doesn't expect is for Tony to clap him on the shoulder, almost spilling coffee on his arm, saying, "Welcome to the Avengers Cooking Club, Katniss. Just a PSA here, Thor and I can't really cook, so we're only ever in charge of dinner, and on those days we get take out. Fast. Easy. And, the kitchen still stands at the end of the day. Win-win all around. Trust me." He's pathetically proud for not flinching at the unforeseen physical contact.

As if roused from his slumber by the sound of his name, Thor appears in the elevator, and promptly makes his way towards the kitchen. It's strange, Clint thinks, seeing Thor outside of his armor, in jeans, and a too tight red plaid button down shirt, his hair tied off at the back of his neck in a small ponytail, a few free thin strands framing his face. The scene before him is unexpectedly domestic in a way Clint hadn't thought possible.

"Good morning, friends! Ah, it seems the Hawk has left the nest. I take it you will be joining us for what I'm sure will be a fine breakfast, will you not Clinton?" Thor asks merrily, sporting an easy smile, as he sits down in one of the chairs at the table.

"Morning there, Point Break," Tony calls out, smirking, tapping Thor on the shoulder as he passes him.

"Call me Clint, big guy," Clint replies grinning. Thor seems to have that effect on everyone, people can't help but be friendly towards him. Maybe it has to do with his god status, he thinks.

It takes another twenty minutes before he and Natasha finish cooking breakfast and another ten before everyone is settled, scattered across various seats and surfaces, talking and eating. He sits at the kitchen table along with Natasha and Thor, who is enthusiastically telling them Asgardian war stories. Thor, Clint realizes, is easy to talk to; undemanding in his conversation, filling in the blank silent spaces with ease. In this aspect, the Asgardian resembles Tony; Clint can't help but be oddly comforted by that. Clint is a person of few words, preferring the quiet thrum of his thoughts, and sometimes it is comforting to have someone who effortlessly talks, words endlessly spewing from their mouth, demanding nothing of him in turn. While Thor tells them of the great Lady Sif, Clint watches his surroundings.

Steve is sitting on one of the barstool chairs reading a solid, paper and ink, newspaper as he eats his pancakes. Bruce and Tony sit on the other two barstools, intently leaning into each other, eating; Tony talking animatedly about subatomic particles and the certainty of the cell being the smallest unit of life, while Bruce intently listens, softly speaking up when there's a lull in Tony's chatter. Beside their plates are two steaming mugs of coffee.

The hollow weight in his bones doesn't feel quite so heavy anymore, doesn't feel quite as oppressive. Who knew the weight of nothingness would be such a burden, such an oppressive force, compressing his chest until the breath left his lungs in a sharp gasp. He takes a deep breath, and is amazed that he can without feeling the familiar pressure on his chest.

Apparently it's Steve's turn to do the dishes, so he gathers his, Natasha's, and Thor's plates, sets them on the counter beside Steve.

"Thanks, Clint," Steve says, warm eyes meeting his for a second, demure shy smile on his lips.

Clint secretly worries about Steve; the man is a walking barely breathing anachronism. He's not sure if anyone else has noticed how reserved the Captain is, how worryingly solitary. It can't be easy to sleep for seventy years only to wake up and find the world you knew no longer exists, that it has been morphed into a thing whose bare bones you barely recognize. It can't be easy to wake up to a world devoid of everyone you knew, everyone you loved, everyone who loved you in turn. And though Clint knows Steve can be unflinchingly polite, all soft all American smiles, he recognizes loneliness when he sees it, recognizes the dull barely there flicker in Steve's eyes. Clint wonders if Steve is depressed, wouldn't be surprised if he was; wonders if he is suicidal in any way, would be shocked if he weren't.

Clint worries about them all, about their stability as a team, about their stability as individuals. Before he can lose himself in his thoughts, however, Tony comes over and begins talking. It takes him a second to tune in.

"—go to the workshop. These new arrows aren't going to test themselves, plus there are still some things I'm unsure about and we never did finish discussing the design specs for those new acidic arrows of yours. Gotta talk about building you a new quiver and—"

"Shouldn't you be analyzing that Chitauri molecular analysis Banner sent your way?" Clint interrupts Tony mid sentence, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can trap them.

Tony pauses for a moment and Clint thinks he sees a brief flash of hurt in his eyes, but he blinks and Tony is all smiles.

"Hey," Tony says, his eyes quickly darting over to Natasha and back to Clint, "it's cool if you're busy or whatever. I mean, we can test them some other time and I can look into arrow making and figure some of this stuff out myself, no big deal, I'm a genius after all, if I can become an expert in chemical engineering in just a few months I can totally learn all there is to know about arrows in a few days—"

"I'm not busy," Clint cuts in knowing Tony is prone to keep on babbling. "Just figured that analysis must have a higher priority than my arrows."

"That analysis is boring, besides JARVIS will give me the run down of it later. I didn't just make him so he could insert sarcastic and snarky commentary into my daily life, you know."

No, Clint thinks, you didn't; but you also wanted to hear a voice besides the one in your own head. Tony, he's learned, does not do well in silence. It suffocates him, makes him tense, anxious, until he can't help but fill in the void.

Clint merely shrugs after having met Natasha's eyes past Tony, "Let me shower and change, I stink."

Tony grins, a slight manic gleam in his eyes.

Natasha silently follows him onto his floor, into his bedroom, and it isn't until the door closes behind them that she corners him.

"What changed?"

It's a simple question with a complicated answer. For a brief moment he thinks about asking her what she means, but he knows her, knows it would be futile, a waste of time and breath; besides, part of him doesn't want to circumvent the question.

He stands up from crouching down by his bag, a bundle of clean clothes in his hands, turns around from the closet to look at her, "He gave me something I needed, no questions asked. I…" He drops his eyes, unsure of how to get her to understand, before he brings them back up to hers again. "I can breathe around him, Tash. He's just there, doesn't demand anything from me, doesn't treat me differently, is willing to turn his back on me without looking over his shoulder; was only surprised that I designed my own weapons, and that I hacked him." He shrugs, a simple lift of the shoulders. "It's almost normal." After everything that has happened his mind screams for any semblance of normalcy.

She nods, and with that he turns to go into the bathroom leaving the door wide open in case she wants to continue their conversation. When he makes his way out to dress, his room is empty.

Five minutes later, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Clint is standing in front of the adamantium glass door wondering how to get Tony's attention over the pulsing music so he can get in. He watches Tony say something to thin air, and briefly Clint thinks the genius is talking to himself until the door opens; realizes Tony must have informed JARVIS to let him in.

Walking in, he can see Tony has already pulled up all the specs for their arrows. There's an extra chair by the workbench. He takes up his perch, sitting crossed legged like the adult he is, and immediately starts looking over notes Tony has made on their designs. "Sweet Child o' Mine" by Guns N' Roses playing in the workshop.

"Okay, so, about these acidic arrows," Tony says enlarging the specs in front of them, "how about we hollow out the shafts, line them with Alloy 20, store the acid there? It would allow you to carry more."

"Won't work," Clint informs him, running a quick simulation for him. "Liquid inside would cause instability I couldn't compensate for. I may be able to hit a big target, but the shot will be nowhere near accurate. Too much risk."

"Just how deep into my systems did you manage to hack?" Tony asks, head cocked, speculating how much of his system Clint is familiar with to the point he can easily create a simulation.

"Deep enough."

"Huh. Can I use you to find gaps in JARVIS' security code? Not like we have anything big going on."

Clint turns to look over at him, watches as he pulls up a log he recognizes from when he hacked him the first time. He sees Tony's eyebrows steadily make their way to his hairline the more he scrolls down the log.

"You're good," he says nodding to himself. "JARVIS wasn't even aware you were there until ten seconds in. Definitely gave my AI a run for his money there, 'cOmrade.' But seriously, you should don a white hat and help me plug any security holes. We can make a day out of it, last one to hack into JARVIS' mainframe gets stuck with kitchen duty," he finishes waggling his eyebrows over at him. **

"You're crazy, Stark," Clint says chuckling. "You're on. Just give me a date and time and I'm there."

Clint spent the rest of the day holed up in Tony's workshop, designing new arrows while Tony began building prototypes of both the acidic and explosive ones they had designed during the night. He even took over music selection at one point telling Tony he obviously needed to familiarize himself with music from this century and decade; just because he wasn't born in this century didn't mean he could simply ignore the generation's music. His response to that had been to grudgingly tell JARVIS to play whatever horrors Clint considers good music after five straight minutes of ranting about the cultural value of bands like AC/DC, Black Sabbath, and Led Zeppelin. Clint started off with Nirvana (figured the 90's were as good as any middle to start with), then moved on to Smashing Pumpkins, then to Alice in Chains. He threw in some Chevelle, tried his luck with Drake, and then played The Killers to which he was surprised to find the billionaire slightly humming to.

Around noon, Bruce tapping on the glass brings them out of the workshop, letting them know, via JARVIS, that lunch is ready. As soon as they finish with their lunch, and after a few looks from everyone else on the team - especially from Natasha - they make it back down to the workshop and keep working for a few more hours until Tony declares he has to get ready for his dinner with Pepper and the board of directors when his AI reminds him of it.

"Seriously, what is the point of having someone run my company for me when I still have to do things like this?" Tony grumbles as he makes final adjusts to their plans and begins shutting down programs.

"Company's called Stark Industries. It's still your company, no matter who runs it," Clint says shrugging, getting up to inspect the prototypes Tony has built.

"Yeah," Tony says with a deep weary sigh that causes Clint to look over at him. There are still dark circles under his eyes, his hair is disheveled, and there are new cuts on his hands from the arrow vanes.

"You used to have no problem skipping out on these things before," he says as they head to the exit, because it's the truth. Tony was notorious for missing board meetings, keeping his board members on constant edge about stock prices, doing whatever he wanted to do the way he wanted to do it. He was a whirlwind. But for all his faults as a businessman, he was ultimately successful; presenting new tech to his members that was more than enough to appease them in the form of millions of dollars in revenue.

"I know. But not even Obie - Stane - was so adamant about me interacting with the board; then again he was trying to take the company away from me, so there's that. Okay, shut it down JARV."

"Yes, sir."

They take a moment to watch the glass darken before the pair of them make their way over to the elevator. A moment passes before Clint, for once, breaks the silence.

"Besides the obvious, why do you hate it so much?" Clint doesn't expect a full honest answer.

"Because they don't care. All they see are the numbers on their progress folders and for most of them those numbers just mean their salaries. After Stane, I spent months trying to replace some board members, but they're too legally protected. Some of them have been a part of the company since the beginning and have life long board contracts with few clauses. Frankly, I'm just waiting this out until some of them drop dead or get too sick to stay."

Tony has a tablet in hand and is busy typing away, but his tone is tired, still weary, and now Clint can't help but think about Tony's own stability or lack thereof. No one leaves three months of torture in Afghanistan along with recent events without something more than scars on their skin. Clint wonders just how deep Tony's go.

The Avengers were still too raw, he realizes, otherwise he and Tony wouldn't have had this conversation. The genius would have gone on a tangent, an incessant bombastic stream of words, until Clint either forgot the question he had asked or simply gave up pursuing it. He marvels at Pepper's patience.

He leaves Tony in the elevator while he gets off on the communal floor or rather the Avenger's floor as he's decided to call it. He heads towards the kitchen where he can see Bruce, Natasha (who has since changed into a tank top and yoga pants since their workout), Steve, and Thor. Bruce and Natasha are over by the stove while Steve and Thor bring out various plates and silverware.

"What's for dinner?"

"Indian," replies Bruce, turning from the steaming pot set before him on the stove, a gentle smile on his lips.

It takes him a while longer than he'd like to admit to remember India was the country the doctor had hid himself away in before SHIELD sent Natasha to retrieve him when shit hit the fan. Did the doctor miss India? Miss being anonymous, miss being as far away from the states and any American military organization as he could manage? Does he find their presence stifling, after so much time spent by himself? Can he breathe here? Since the accident, Clint knew the doctor did not stay in one spot for very long, a few months give or take, sometimes less. Clint thinks about whether or not Bruce will leave when he finishes analyzing the biological composition of the Chitauri.

He glances over at the pair by the stove and notices the distance between them, a distance most likely imposed by Natasha because he knows she still remembers the look in Bruce's eyes as he shifted and changed in front of her, as he struggled and lost the fight, doubled over in size, the recognition leaving his eyes. He's seen the security footage, can count the number of times in one hand he has seen the near petrified look in her eyes.

Dinner resembles breakfast in how Clint is Natasha's satellite, orbiting around her without trying to be too obvious about it. Tony's right, they aren't a team, the proof lies in the fact they aren't wholly at ease around each other. For as well as they fought together in the battle of New York, they don't trust each other, not where it counts.

Somehow, dinner is a quieter affair than breakfast. Natasha seems to be lost in her thoughts, and Bruce – without Tony around—is more withdrawn than usual. Steve and Thor are silently eating.

They all collectively turn their heads when they hear the ding of the elevator and out steps Tony in a well-pressed grey suit with a light yellow diagonally blue striped tie, hair artfully styled, actual black dress shoes on his feet instead of his usual high-end sneakers. The billionaire looks handsome in a way that makes Clint realize why he was named one of the top ten hottest celebrities by People's magazine. On his wrists, he sports his Iron Man bracelets.

"Ok, kiddies, I'm off to my meeting. If anything comes up, JARVIS can contact me and send one of the suits. I should be back in a few hours, sooner if I manage to piss off the board enough," he cheerfully declares.

They wave him off with mutterings of "Good luck," "Be back soon," and "Have fun, Stark."

Minutes later, Clint absconds out of the Avengers' floor, goes into the elevator, and—without pressing a button or speaking a word—is brought to his own floor. JARVIS seems to be picking up on whatever pattern of behavior he has established since living at the Tower. Has he always been this predictable? He tries to think back to his younger days, before SHIELD, before becoming a freelance assassin. He isn't sure. His life has never been what he would call predictable; growing up in a circus with an abusive father did not provide him with any sort of predictable schedule. It would have been far easier to avoid his father's rages, he reflects, had he known to not be inside their trailer at three o'clock in the afternoon because his father had gotten drunk, indignant due to some thing or other. Freelance jobs and SHIELD work resulted in a lot of moving around, from town to town, state to state, country to country. And while SHIELD provided far more stability than being a freelance assassin had, he was only in the country a few weeks out of the year. His surroundings are not breeding grounds for predictability, or stability; rather the opposite really.

He rummages around the pocket of the pants he wore last night for the pills Tony handed him, quickly uncaps the bottle, and pops two. He begins to change into his sleepwear (a t-shirt and boxers) when he pauses, staring at the black bag at the foot of his empty closet. This time, instead of tossing the clothes back into the bag, he sets them off to the side; the foundation of a dirty pile of laundry he is sure to amass over the next few weeks.

Note: ** "cOmrade" was the alias of a famous hacker named Jonathan James, who at the age of sixteen hacked NASA and the Department of Defense. His hacks, while harmless, cost the government thousands of dollars in repairing the security systems. Sadly, he committed suicide in 2008, two weeks after his home was raided in what was thought to be a connection to a sizable identity theft case. His suicide was tragically a result of his fear of being imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. Tony tells Clint to put on a white hat in reference to "white hat hackers." The term refers to those who break into computer systems in order to expose their vulnerabilities and then "patch" them up.

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Jonathan's page is #10

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