Hey, you guys! I am very sorry I hadn't been able to post until now. I'm having my finals this month and they pretty much take up all my time. I'm not sure when I'm going to have the time to get down to the next chapter, but I'll be trying to get it done as soon as possible. For now, enjoy this one! As always, half the credit goes to Scarlett Kingston, my amazing beta. She did a fair amount of the neat stuff you can see in here. Please drop a review, they mean a lot to me! :)

Steve dropped down on the couch in his living room. He hadn't expect Natasha to visit so soon - or at all for that matter - but he was glad to see her again. After she had said goodbye at Fury's "burial" they hadn't been in touch for almost four months and he only realized how much he had missed her when they met again the day before, at Peggy's funeral. He had wondered if there was a reason to the timing. Right when a woman who he felt deep affection for left him forever, another one entered his life again. Because he did feel affection for Natasha, he would have been lying to himself had he denied it. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe an act of God. He would have liked to believe in the latter. Steve had been awake in this new world for a couple of years now and one thing he had noticed had changed most was that people had forgotten to have faith. Something he couldn't even imagine living without.

Faith in a higher power was what made him think that Natasha's reappearance was an indication that it was time to let go of Peggy, that maybe he should focus on what he had instead of what he didn't anymore. To not rule out the possibility that another woman could make him feel the way Peggy did. All he had to do was open his eyes and read what was right in front of him.

It hadn't been a full day since Natasha and he had parted again and he had begun to miss her presence already, though he would never admit it to anyone else. He enjoyed being around her. He wasn't exactly sure what that meant. All he was sure of was the way she made him smile with her teasing with the game they played where she attempted to set him up with practically every woman she knew. She made him forget the weight of the world that hung about his neck, reminded him that there was life outside the battlefield. Life that was worth living as long as she was part of it.

His eyes followed her as she made her way across the room to stand in front of him. At first he hadn't known what to make of her question. Switzerland? He hadn't considered the two of them close enough to take a random trip together merely for fun, as tempting as the thought happened to be. His lips pressed firmly together as he guessed her motive, his head nodding in conclusion as she told him.

There was still no word from Clint. She was concerned. She had find out what happened. She expounded what details she had, all of which appeared to be too few for Steve's liking. He knew what it was like to have a friend to look after, but with the amount of intelligence on Clint's whereabouts he was wary of her plan.

"So the only hard evidence you've got is the address to the hotel he was staying at?" Steve folded his arms across his chest, raising his eyebrows after she had finished. Back in his days with the army, they only carried out operations with thoroughly constructed action strategies. They were ordered to keep the improvisation rate as low as possible. When he had been recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. he'd noted with deep satisfaction that the organization held the same basic principles that he had been used to. Natasha's offer, on the other hand, proposed the exact opposite. He knew she leaned more towards the rebellious side, which was somewhat understandable regarding her area of expertise. Still, it was something he couldn't quite relate to.

"I know it's not the most promising lead. But at least it's a lead."

"Not the most promising?" He sat forward and looked hard into her face. "Okay, let's say we get to the hotel. Then what?" His unconcealed skepticism hit her in the chest. Her jaw clenched slightly and she swallowed. She was used to people questioning her and had learned to deal with trust issues, but coming from Steve, those words found their way much deeper.

There was a lull in conversation as the two stared at one another. She cocked her head, taking a slight intake of air and answered, "Then we go and find Clint."

Steve snorted and shook his head. As if it were that easy. No one in their right mind would truly believe that.

Although Steve wasn't familiar with the full history of Clint and Natasha, he knew they were close. He understood that she wanted to help him, but he also felt like she was acting on impulse rather than rationality.

"Nat, don't be stupid. You know I'm always here for you if you need help, but you're just asking to get in trouble with this plan. With so many unknown variables, I'm not sure we can pull this off. We need a better structured plan." He tried to keep the annoyed tone out of his voice. He didn't want his words to come off as rejecting. He wasn't going to turn his back on her, but wasn't going to jump head first into something with not even the slightest glimpse of the way out.

"Steve," she huffed, shifting her weight, "I have my own doubts about this as well. It's definitely not the most favorable situation by any means. So much could go wrong. But we don't have the luxury of time. If we want to make a move, we've got to do it now!" She nervously spun her phone between her fingers.

Steve knew that attempting this mission would be reckless. Entering enemy territory nearly blind of all facts did not bode well. He stood from the couch and walked towards her. She stayed firmly rooted to her spot.

His eyes quickly glanced at his phone on the counter. "We should probably call Tony. I'm sure he could-,"

"Steve, please don't try to dissuade me. My mind is made. I know damn well what the chances are, but I can't sit idle any longer knowing that Clint could be dead!" There. She'd said it. Her hand clenched around her phone. Her breathing became shallow and the faintest of colors flushed the skin of her face. Steve put his hands on his hips.

Natasha continued, her voice quieter. "This whole situation is messed up, but I didn't come all the way to your apartment only to listen to you judge me, I'm here to ask for your help." Her arms fell next to her body. She was standing close enough for Steve to see the determination and near panic in her eyes as she spoke.

Steve was the one person in the world Natasha could always count on, no matter what. Whenever danger stared her in the face, he was there in a blink of an eye to help her. Her knight in shining armor. She couldn't tell when exactly it happened, but somewhere along the way she had started to take him for granted. She didn't need to look over her shoulder to know he was there. He always was. And yet when she was asking for help, he hesitated. Seeing his uncertainty, she wondered which would hurt more: being rejected or being rejected by Steve.

Steve remained silent. His eyes bored a hole in the wood floor of his apartment, a tick working in his jaw as the thought. She seemed intransigent; there was no way he could convince her.

"I'm taking a flight that leaves in two hours." Natasha broke the silence. Her voice was calm but firm. "Are you going to be on it or not?" The question left no option for any further arguing.

Steve didn't like the idea. No one with the tiniest bit of common sense would, let alone former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. But he could tell from the determination in her voice that she was going to do it anyway. With or without him. And he wasn't going to let her down. They were a team. They were friends. Friends. Steve's mind lingered on the word for a second. Was that really all she was to him? Was that the reason he knew from the very second she stepped through his door that he was going to go wherever she asked him to go?

His eyes shifted to the bookshelf across the room, allowing himself a few more moments to think. Finally, he exhaled and met her gaze. "Alright, let's do it," he nodded.

Natasha's body visibly relaxed and he saw the corners of her mouth curve into a smile. He took a breath and began to walk towards his bedroom to pack, hoping that this decision wouldn't come back to haunt them.

The Mount Rushmore National Memorial is visited by nearly three million people every year, easily making it South Dakota's top tourist attraction. More than three times as many photographs are taken here than other places by friends, couples and families who travel up to the Northern half of the country. Later when they would go through all the photos, they would see the sculptures of the heads of four former United States presidents carved into the granite walls of the Black Hills. Their eyes would linger on the ponderosa pines on the mountainside, the forest becoming more and more sparse as it rose upwards, as if the trees themselves were trying to climb the rocks, only a few succeeding.

Tourists would see themselves in the pictures, smiling before the beautiful landscape, completely unaware of the hidden tunnels and caves forming an extensive network underneath the mountain, some small, others bigger. The visitors would tell numerous stories about the day they visited the faces of the first hundred and thirty years of American history, but none would be filled with facts about a secret Hydra base operating below the surface.

None of the men and women suspected a middle-age, slightly balding man to be a Nazi officer as he walked past them on the Avenue of Flags on a beautiful autumn afternoon. He wore a dark leather coat with matching dark pants and nicely polished black boots reflecting the sky above. Nothing that would distinguish him from the dozen other people bundled in similar outfits. The monocle might be considered a little unusual, but everyone had their quirks. Some of the younger children who had never seen such an odd trinket pulled at their parents' sleeves, trying to call their attention. The man looked down at a few of them, even cracking a smile. The children were often hushed and dragged on, the image of the monocle quickly erased from their memories.

The crowd took no notice of the man as he subtly looked around before a swift change in direction, deviating from the concrete walking path. The crackling noise of the gravel underneath his feet was quelched by the sound of joyful laughter. He made his way under the trees to the foot of the mountain, wading through the growing shadows of the setting sun like a specter. After he had entered the hidden passageway leading deep into the facility, no evidence of him being at the memorial that day would be left.

The baron entered the tunnels, heading to the main operating room. He walked through the large archway and was met by several high ranking officers. They all ceased their work and stood to attention, waiting silently for any order they should receive.

"Mr. Strucker," an elderly man nodded and walked to meet his superior in the middle of the room.

"The archer?" von Strucker asked, bypassing the unnecessary formalities.

"We have placed him in a cell as you wished." The words came out prim and respectful, but the twitch near the lower left hand corner of his mouth told the baron the man was intimidated. "We haven't talked to him as we thought it better to wait with it until your arrival."

"Take me to him."

The noise of approaching footsteps echoed in the chamber. Clint Barton's eyes flicked open. He had wondered how long it would take for someone to finally "enlighten" him about Hydra's intentions. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since they captured him. A few hours? Maybe a day? It was hard to tell time between four concrete walls. He shook his throbbing head, trying to clear the remaining fog that lingered from his fight.

He kept replaying the sequence of events in Zürich over and over in his head, analyzing each movement that had ultimately lead to his capture. He had done everything the same way he always had before entering enemy territory. First, discreetly acquainting himself with the area, wherever it happened to be. He had spent three or four days analyzing the surrounding area, both near the warehouse and around his hotel. Second, making sure the areas around his target were secure. Again, he had spent a few days checking and re-checking. He had moved swiftly and silently, taking out a few of Hydra's guards on his way through. He had been nothing more than a shadow on a wall, easily missed by those who knew naught what to look for. Apparently, he hadn't been fast enough. He remembered feeling the cold metal of a barrel jammed into the back of his head, the click of it and many other weapons cocking behind. There had been a door beside him. The guard who held the gun to his head had ordered him to stand and then drop his weapons. He had only obeyed one of those orders. His hand had barely brushed the rusted handle before he was behind the door. He could hear the pings of the bullets ricocheting off the metal, pockmarks forming where they had hit. Quickly, he had pulled a thin cable arrow from his quiver, thrusting one end neck height into the concrete wall and the other into the opposite side of the frame.

A loud bang thundered from behind the door, causing Clint to jump back. He had turned and ran, passing through aisles of shelving units piled with boxes and parcels of various shapes and sizes. Sprinting forward, his eyes lighted on a door across the room. He skidded around the corner. Time had been against him, he needed out. Reaching for the handle of the door, he turned it but nothing happened. His eyes widened. He tried again, this time leaning his full weight into it. Teeth clenched, sweat dripped. His muscles screamed as they tried to budge the door. Finally, it began to give, but only just. Dingy rays of sunlight peeked through the crack. He pressed into the door again and slowly he could hear it scraping across the ground, opening. There was a blast from the other end of the large room. They had gotten through.

"Damnit! Open, will you!" he grunted as he hit it angrily. The door moved again. The space was now little less than a foot in width. He could hear the boots of the Hydra agents pounding against the concrete floor. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at the door. He couldn't waste any more time. Slipping his quiver off his back, he began to squeeze through the small opening. It was a tight fit and slow going. Clint swallowed. His throat was dry. The sound of orders met his ears, the guards were closing in and he was still wedged between the frame and the door. Frantically, he began to squirm, forcing himself through the space that was too small.

He fell out the other side onto the metal grate and over the ancient pipe that had been blocking the door, but in his sudden exit his quiver had been lost, left inside the warehouse. Gun shots rang through the air and he felt a bullet graze his ear. Hydra was already on the other side of the door. He got up and flew down the stairs. He would have to worry about his quiver later, but the lack of it now left him feeling vulnerable and naked. Bullets whistled past his ears. He dodged but kept running. A thick electrical cable attached itself to a pole near the stairway. More gunshots echoed behind him. Yanking his bow off his shoulder he leaped into the air, pushing off the railing with his foot. Swinging his bow up and over he hooked it over the wire, ziplining down in a whir. He tried not to look down at the ground far beneath him.

Suddenly, he let out a cry of pain. His leg. He could feel the blood trickling down it from the newly made wound. He was almost to the other side, he could make it. He wished he was already there. This was the quickest way across, but where he was he was like a sitting duck. He heard the next gunshot before it hit him. The bullet passed through his forearm and he lost his grip. The ground that he had thought was so far away, in reality, wasn't, but it had still hurt. Something had fractured when he hit. Dazed and flooded with pain, he scrambled up. He needed to find cover. He began to run across the dirt covered ground. His ears rang and the noises around him sounded distant and tinny. His head hurt. Scratch that. He hurt...everywhere. Voices called out behind him, but he couldn't make out what was said. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Had he been shot again? He hadn't heard a gun fire. He reached his hand over. It was wet.

A man dressed in all black leaped out in front of him. Clint stopped short, staring at him. The fight that ensued was short lived. Clint's energy was all but spent, and soon he found his feet kicked out from under him and was forced to kneel on the ground, hands behind his back. His breathing was labored and his vision was shaky. The last thing he had remembered was looking up into a black mask, and then the sharp pain of the butt end of a gun cracked down on his skull.

Groggily, he had awoken with the sound of engines in his ears. He swallowed and stretched his jaw, ears popping. He must've be at a higher altitude, likely on a plane. There was a mildew smelling bag over his head, cinched around his neck. His head still spun and he was glad for the darkness that encased his vision. He hadn't know how long he had been on the plane, but had felt the descent and the less-than-smooth landing as its wheels came into contact with the landing strip. He had then been roughly removed from the cargo hold and lead to a different place.

That place being a roughly fifteen by fifteen foot, dimly lit room. There were no windows on the walls, the only source of light provided by a fluorescent tube attached to the ceiling. It was completely empty inside save for the two chains that attached themselves uncomfortably to his wrists, so Clint sat on the ground with his back against the cold concrete wall. His head slipped forward and hung down. It ached from where the guard had buttstroked him with the rifle. He still wasn't thinking clearly. He had made makeshift wrappings for his injuries from his clothing while kept in this pit of a prison, but he could feel his heart beat in each bullet wound. Echoes of passing footsteps outside the cell grated against his ears, but thankfully no one ever stopped by.

Clint was playing with the hole in his pant leg, trying to regather his focus when the lock to his door opened with a loud clang. He raised his head and examined his visitors with complete lack of interest reflecting on his features. Two guards entered and stood by the frame of the door, shortly followed by a third man whom he didn't recognize.

"Hallo, Mr. Barton," the man spoke. He had a slight accent which Clint had trouble recognizing. French, or German maybe? His voice was relaxed, calm, amused even. Clint shifted on the ground, eyes never leaving the man but narrowing slightly.

"My name ist Wolfgang von Strucker," he said as he stepped further into the room. The name sounded unfamiliar to Clint. Before he could say more, the archer interrupted.

"Good. Now I know what to carve into the head of the arrow I'm going to put through your skull." Clint kept his eyes locked on the baron, a hidden power play between the two men.

The baron chuckled. Definitely amused, thought Clint. He leaned his head back on the wall with a grimace.

"That, for you Mr. Barton," continued Strucker, brushing off the empty threat, "would be slightly problematic. You see, we have carefully locked away your equipment. Your energies were spent in a futile attempt to evade capture. You are now dehydrated and lack proper nourishment. You have had sufficient blood loss from your wounds. Because of those you have lost the ability to properly fight, at least in a way that would be advantageous for you. You will find trying to escape in your current condition a feat only for those of superhuman abilities, that which you will never possess." The baron stood with his hands behind his back, his posture disgustingly authoritative, a smirk growing across his face. Clint sucked his cheeks in until they were hollow. He could feel his heart racing, each pulse pounding his nerves. People like Strucker made his blood boil. At least now he knew that they still had his bow.

"Why did you just execute me then, since I'm obviously of no use to you?"

The man let out another laugh. His smile and the amused wrinkles that creased his face almost made Clint nauseous. "We would not give such a man as you that painless of a death. But do not worry, killing you was never our intention. We have bigger plans for you. Much bigger.

"Why do I feel those plans won't include breakfast in bed and a free massage? What plans do you have in mind exactly?" Clint pushed himself off the floor, using the wall as a crutch. The thrumming in his head became unbearable and a new wave of dizziness clouded his vision. He clenched his teeth, looking back at Strucker with venom in his eyes.

"You'll find out in time, Mr. Barton," he smiled mockingly. "Until then, please enjoy Hydra's hospitality." The baron turned his back on the prisoner and headed for the door. He already crossed the threshold when Clint's voice called after him.

"Have you heard of Harry Houdini?" Clint had stepped away from the wall and was now standing in the middle of the cell, the chains taut. His voice held a hint of warning, the first hint of warning von Strucker had heard during their entire conversation. The baron paused a moment.

"The American illusionist?" he asked, with his back to the archer.

"Actually, he was Hungarian."

Strucker gave a quick sigh of annoyance and turned back toward Clint. "Is there something you wish to tell me, Mr. Barton, or do you find simple enjoyment in wasting my time?"

"You know what he was most famous for?" Clint asked.

"Is it perhaps getting himself stuck in nasty situations?" His jaw tensed in impatience.

"Close. His escape acts."

Von Strucker waited for Clint to continue, but the silence that followed made it clear that he wasn't going to say anything more.

The baron removed his monocle and began to clean it. "A riveting history lesson I will admit, Mr. Barton. However, I do not see how it's relevant in our situation."

"Oh, it's very simple," Clint said as he watched the man replace his eyepiece. "What the eyes see and the ears hear, the mind believes. Are you sure you see what you think you see?"

Von Strucker stood still, examining Barton's face before turning his back on him again, thoroughly finished with the archer's attempted mind game.

"See you around, Mr. Barton."

The massive metal door closed in Clint's face with a loud, heavy sound. Silence filled the room once more. He stumbled over to the wall and sat back down. Clint hoped that Von Strucker was only trying to appear as if he held all the cards. Clint had a sneaking suspicion that he was bluffing, that he wasn't the true author of this...scheme. Someone far more powerful must be making the moves. If his speculation held any weight, he had to find out who was behind the curtains. But for now he needed to rest. Clint leaned as comfortably as he could against the concrete and brick. If what Strucker had planned for him was as ominous as it sounded, he would need all the strength he could gather.