A/N: Thank you so much for sticking with this story. I swear I will get it done even though I've started a new story with Clint and BBC Musketeers. Believe me, this story isn't leaving me alone any more than the rest of them ever have. If you like what i've written please take the time to review. I know it's a bit of a hassle but it means all the world to those of us who write. Thank you very much for the two people that reviewed the last chapter. I am extremely grateful!

As always, I don't own anything except for my own character, the Reaper. He's all mine. If he resembles any other character in the Marvel or DC Universe copyright infringement is not intended. I really think this is my original character.

As always, this is a beta free zone. Please be patient.

Enjoy!

CHAPTER THREE

The world swayed like he was on a ship during high seas. Swallowing bile, Clint hated to admit that he was prone to bouts of sea sickness. In the darkness of his mind, the Avenger slowly became aware of more and more aches and pains as he drew closer to the surface. Part of him would have prefered to stay in the darkness, to avoid the torment he knew lay in the light, not to mention the fact that he had been kidnapped AGAIN! Fortunately, the older, more mature part won, forcing him to survive the nausea and the pain. While he dealt with the internal hell he was in, the archer was blind to what was going on around him.

That in itself was throwing him off. The random lightning strikes of pain going off in his hands and ankle were really hard to ignore too. Then the fact that he was having trouble breathing properly announced itself with a vengeance. What the hell?

In a blinding flash, the memories of what had happened to him flowed over the archer. Son of a bitch! Not more mind control. Cursing every single curse he'd ever learned, Clint forced his eyes open to quickly scan the area around him.

No longer in the warehouse, Clint found that the world had transformed into a mad scientist lab. Somehow that wasn't any better. While he took in his surroundings, the archer tried desperately to ignore the images of his daughter dying. He knew they weren't real. But the gut wrenching possibility was almost more than he could life with. His eyes took in the white tile, the mechanical chairs and the FBI agent were strapped to while his mind went over and over what had happened in his house. Bile threatened as he inspected the bindings holding him to the chair.

The pain in his body was nothing compared to the pain in his mind. With a mental shrug, Clint shoved it kicking and screaming into the darkest, most isolated recesses of his mind. Ignoring his hands, oh God, oh God, and his ankle, Clint looked at his fellow captive. The young agent was slumped in the chair, clearly unconscious. On a rolling medical table, an empty syringe and needle sparkled dully.

With a deep sigh, he rested his head back onto the chair. How were they going to get out of this one? He wondered. Moving as few muscles as he possibly could, Clint pulled a thin, round piece of wire out of a small pocket in the piping of his uniform. Being an agent of SHIELD he'd learned very early on to always be prepared. It took everything he had to hold the wire. His hands were aching so badly that tears were blurring his vision. Random sharp pains flashed from his finger tips to his elbows.

Sweat broke out over Clint's skin, making using the wire even harder. With a conscious effort, the agent took slow, deep breaths as he slipped the wire into the lock on the strap holding his right hand. One slight twist and the wire went spinning away as Clint's hand cramped into a claw. Any attempt to remain calm vanished as the pain turned from a stabbing line to an all encompassing inferno that went from his finger tips, around his wrist and forearm to his bicep and triceps, all the way to his right shoulder.

"Well now. I suppose I should have known that you would try to escape," the familiar voice of the Reaper rumbled from behind him. Closing his eyes to try to gain some composure and knock the unshed tears out of them so he could see better, Clint once again forced his agent expression over his face.

"We can't have that, can we?" the Reaper continued as he stepped around Clint's right side to lay his hand on the archer's right forearm and gently squeezed. The pain skyrocketed once again bringing a roaring to his ears that muffled the next words the Reaper said. Clint struggled valiantly to break his way out of the world of agony and haze he found himself in. Despite every technique SHIELD had taught him and he'd figured out on his own, the world contracted harder, the walls became higher and more dense.

Chuckling to himself, the Reaper took his customary position on his rolling stool. A quick look at the twisted lips, the tightly closed eyes and the sweat beading on his forehead and lip, a smile graced his thin mouth as he placed his hands on either side of the Avenger's head. He had to make sure that the man wasn't able to escape. He also had to make sure that he wasn't injured any more than he currently was. He hadn't been paid to collect the Avenger so damaged that he couldn't be used.

The images in the man's mind revolved entirely around the damage to his hands. He was an archer. He had to be able to grip the bow, the arrow, to draw back the string. In his current state, none of that was possible. What was he to the others if he wasn't Hawkeye, the man who never missed? Underneath those thoughts were other, better buried ones. He didn't have time to delve into them at the moment. Once he finished what he'd come in here to do, though, all bets were off.

With practiced ease, the Reaper found what he wanted. Following the nerves back to their origin, he touched them, electricity crackling along his fingers. The nerves jumped and twitched and slowly turned an unhealthy black colour. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to those memories and thoughts the man was so desperately trying to ignore.

Beneath the pain and darkness, the Reaper found images of life of an Avenger. Not all of them were full of violence and blood. Not all of them involved saving the world. Some of them took place in the Avenger's living room. He was getting warmer, the Reaper could feel it. Parting the walls, he found the archer in a bedroom with a woman he instantly recognized as his wife.

"You think they don't need me," Clint said, pain and insecurity wrapping itself around him, trying to take the archer's breath away.

Ah, huh! The Reaper thought. That's it. That's the man's deepest, darkest fear. That he was the only one among the Avengers that was completely human. He was the easier to hurt. The easier to capture, as he himself had proven. The weakest link. Well, that was something he could easily use to break the man as his contract had stipulated. Grinning, the Reaper backed out of the man's mind. He would let the archer stew in what he'd just done for a few hours before he proceeded with the rest of his plan. Still very pleased with what he'd accomplished, the Reaper stood from his stool and left the room.

OOOOO

Slowly, with infinite care, Clint once again used his ability to compartmentalize his emotions to take control of the pain. It took a lot longer than it should have. Clint could only assume that the reason was because of the depth of pain that had assailed him. Swallowing thickly, he took a deep breath and forced his eyes open.

Nothing changed. Fear spiked through the archer's body. If his hands were free, he would have reached up and touched his eyes to see if they were actually open. As it was, he opened and shut them a few times before he gave into the realization that he was blind. The world fell out from under his bound feet.