A/N: Wow you guys are incredibly patient, but thank you, one and all, for sticking around. Enjoy!

The cold water drums steadily down on Clint's neck and shoulders, the incessant rhythm of it doing a small part to distract him from the panic that still claws at the fringes of his mind. His sleepclothes are soaked through and he's shivering, though whether it's from adrenaline or cold, he can't tell. He can still hear his pulse throbbing in his ears, still feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

He holds both his arms away from him, his right elbow resting on the edge of the tub, his left forearm braced against the wall. In one hand is his cell. In the other is his gun.

He has no idea how long he sits under the showerhead, letting the cold wash over him. Minutes stretch on for hours. He tries to keep his mind blank, but it insists on replaying Loki's intrusion into his mind. He swallows the bile that rises in his throat and screws his eyes shut, bowing his head and shuddering.

The crunch of glass under shoes draws him out of his reverie.

"You and the mirror have a disagreement?"

'Tasha. His eyes snap wide open and he clambers hastily to his feet. He levels the gun at her.

She looks surprised... and concerned. But she sees what he doesn't notice: That he's holding the gun in his right hand. His weak hand. His finger isn't even on the trigger. "Clint."

"Could be a trick. He knows everything now."

She holds her hands up, open, placating. Then she lowers them. He can read her better than anyone and she knows it. Though she makes a point to never do it the same way twice, he'd still recognized standard S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol for confronting the unstable-and-armed. She let him see it, and her shift in tactics. She takes a small step toward him. "Do you trust me?"

He wavers. "I shouldn't."

A half-blink. "But do you?"

He's taut and rigid and ready to spring, but there is the barest lowering of his shoulders that tells 'Tasha he's surrendered.

She relaxes too, underneath the facade of calm, and takes the gun from him, prying his stress-frozen fingers from the grip and placing it on the counter by the sink. Then, reaching past him to shut off the water, she pulls a mostly-dry towel from the rack and hands it to him in return for his cell, setting it with the gun. "Okay. What happened?"

Her eyes are on him, measuring, reading, boring into him. His stomach twists, and the movement of his thoughts to his incomplete recollection of whatever-that-was does little to aid things. He wraps the towel around his shoulders, avoiding 'Tasha's gaze.

"Clint."

She can read him better than anyone and he knows it. "Loki. He, uh... I don't even know. He was in my head. He did something - to my mind. Fixed something. No. I don't was there- here, then he was gone, but he's still locked up in wherever-it-is, in Asgard. Right? Worlds away. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't have been here. We would know if he'd escaped, wouldn't we? I would know."

The spy is silent. Then, "What did Loki do to your mind?"

He looks up, eyes meeting hers, and the fear there is enough to chill her blood. "I don't remember. I don't know what he did to me, Nat," he says hoarsely, his voice low and broken. "He just- he said I should thank him. For what he did. And maybe I should. I thought, 'Maybe I should.'"

'Tasha's eyes spark alight, her brows lowering, her mouth setting into a thin, firm line. "You don't owe him anything, Clint. Not after what he's done to you."

"Then why don't I know that?"

The whispered question hangs long and unanswered in the air between them.