I have so very much writing to catch up on it ain't even funny!

Anyway, onto the next! Thank you muchly for the love!

Reviewers;

Nilinara: Thank you for the review! Does mean alot and I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter up!

I'll answer your confusion here though because I was meant to mention it in the first chapter but me being me I forgot.
This story is basically split in two, so one chapter will be during the war to see who this Clint is and the next will be him trying to recover and piece things together. They tie in together, so don't worry!

Anyway yeah!

Disclaimer; I don't own Avengers, or Marvel, or World War Two, or barns, or farm houses, or water, or anything else that mentioned in any of these chapters because I'm just a poor college student who stays at home writing things!

November 1943. 1706 hrs.

30 minutes.. For a Hawkeye? What was that dream? The hell did it mean?

His eyes were reluctant to open even when commanded. There was a sweat laying thick on his forehead and good god if Clint found some water he swore that no matter the amount it wouldn't be enough to quench his throat!

Keep the image you idiot.. Try remember - and it's gone. Fucking great.

A room. He didn't recognise it.

He let his eyes fully adjust to the light before sparing a glance at the window. It was closed but still the curtains ruffled. A draft. That's the breeze that alerted him to the sweat even if it was freezing cold in the room.

There was a large yard outside. Just dirt and gravel that kicked up in dust clouds as the wind swept across. A little further away he could make out the shape of a barn in a field.

He was so interested in where he was that he didn't notice the woman in the room until she leaned across him.

Ok.. Got to get your head in check there.. Name, start with that. Start with.. Name..

The woman dabbed some disinfectant onto a bit of wool and rubbed it along his arm - cutting off his thoughts completely. A hiss followed a jolt of pain from the action and he tried his best to push her aside.

He needed out of here. Something was wrong, something happened, and he had to figure out what. Had to figure out who the hell tried to kill him.

"Let me." She said firmly. "I'm a nurse."

A nurse.

Clint looked up and met her eyes, his vision slowly coming back to focus after the jolt of pain had messed it up again.

He's seen her before.. Full red lips set below the brightest green eyes he's ever seen. She was bundled in layers – the end of a dress just sticking out of a few cardigans – simple and beautiful. But it was the hair that held Clint's attention. Bright red that should not be natural. He's definitely seen that before.

"A nurse.." He said through a sigh. Just to hide the pain her dabbing was giving.

"That's right." She practically sang the words. "And you're sick so just let me, ok?"

This definitely wasn't a hospital though. Wasn't a med tent in a unit nor a blindingly white room of a local clinic.

The large windows and cream coloured crumbling paint screamed farm house to him. That barn he spotted just emphasised that idea. He was on a single wooden framed bed and had just one simple sheet laid over him.

Clint lay with his head back against the pillow as she worked. He felt a thick bandage on the side of his neck and beneath it was pulsing a burning hot. His head throbbed in time with it. The beat of pain was dull but steady enough to make it almost impossible to hold a straight thought.

Gun shot. He knew the pain well.

But how do you know that? What the hell happened? What kind of shit are you involved in?

She dabbed a fresh batch of disinfectant onto his skin and he nearly screamed at her to back off. She just sent Clint a grin and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

The red.

He knew it.

A ditch. A truck. A bike.

If he could he would have paled even more.

Son a bitch. Someone left me there to die, but she took me in. We killed someone.. We fucking killed someone!

The woman paused when he sent her a look. He knew it was a horrified one but he guessed she took it as a questioning glance and looked as if she was trying to figure out where to start.

"You were shot." She started. Well that was forward! "Twice."

Clint nodded. He had guessed that much really.

"How bad?"

"Once in the neck – that's the worst." She replied. She began cleaning up her supplies as she continued. "Don't think I've ever met someone as lucky as you. Missed your windpipe by about a centimetre I'd say. Nasty, got infected but I cleaned it up and I'll look after it."

She sounded like a nurse. He'd go as far to say doctor. She held a professional mannerism that made him know she knew what the fuck she was talking about. She was able to discuss his injuries with a cold detachment that any civilian would be incapable of doing.

"Second went right into your left calf. Will hurt like a bitch but it's not dangerous. Had to take the bullet out so you can make a necklace of it if you want! Same story as your neck, I'll keep it clean and it'll be fine. Your blood loss is my main worry."

Clint nodded. His mind couldn't handle that much information but he got the general gist – he's fucked unless she stays here with him and he just used up possibly eight of his nine lives.

The sudden gaze the woman fixed him unsettled Clint immensely.

"You're strong." She said softly. "Know how to take a bullet. Most would have died."

Know how to take a bullet.. Gang member? Soldier? Some kind of criminal? Does she know? Ask, you idiot..

Clint sighed and tried sit up a bit but the throbbing in his head and a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He closed his eyes and let the woozy feeling pass before he felt a glass held to his lips. He drank the liquid gratefully before looking back up at the woman.

Layers. She was in layers. So the heat Clint felt was definitely a bad fever setting in.

"Few days in bed, lots of rest, and you'll be brand new."

Clint watched how she handled herself with curiosity. She was calm, too calm for someone who found a man nearly dead and shot up in a trench. He knew he wasn't dangerous, he knew he'd never do anything to hurt someone innocent, but surely she didn't know that.

What's your game..?

"Who are you?" He whispered. He didn't realise that he spoke the words until the red head paused in placing the water back on the bedside cabinet.

She shot him a small smile before sitting carefully on the side of his bed.

"I'm sorry. I was a little too busy assessing you to introduce myself, Clint. Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

Clint.

The name fit. It stirred something. He knew it. She knew him?

She – Natasha was it? – must have sensed his confusion because she reached into her pocket and pulled out some kind of card. It was in half, tattered and torn, but he recognised it as half a driver's license. The text on the page was barely legible, but sure enough 'Clinto' was staring at them.

Clinton. The 'n' was torn but he was sure that was it.

"Pulled it from your pocket when we got here." She started softly. She moved to place it on the cabinet by the bed. "Along with some money. It's safe in the kitchen if you need it."

"Thanks." He said dryly. His throat felt like a rock. "How long have I been out?"

"Twenty-nine hours." Natasha hummed after checking a pocket watch. Rarely saw a lady with one. "Wish it were longer but you strike me as the kind of man who'll be difficult to keep still for too long, Clint..?"

Natasha let his name trail, and when he looked to her she was staring at him with an eyebrow raised. She was waiting for a second name, waiting for her to inform him, and the sweat that was on him turned cold.

Second name.. Come on, Clint. You know a first name, something should come from that!

"Clint.." He said aloud, softly, slowly, testing the name on his tongue and waiting for another to follow. Nothing.

"You don't remember.." She said after a moment of silence. It took all he had - mentally and physically - to nod. "You remember anything? Age? Hometown?"

Hometown. America somewhere? That doesn't count you idiot.. Small town..

Age? Damn, right now I feel around a hundred and three but that ain't it..

With a frown, he shook his head. Her lips formed a tight line.

"Parents?" She pushed. "Mother, father, brothers, sisters?"

Family.. Something swam infront of his vision - green, bright lights..explosions?

Are my family dead? Did something happen? Dammit why can't you remember!?

"I don't know.." He whispered in a panic. He tried rise from the bed, he needed air, needed out of here. It was too warm, the blanket was too restricting, her damn hand was on his damn shoulder again and he just wanted out!

"Relax." She soothed, gently pushing him back to lie down. "Deep breaths. This happens sometimes, it's trauma Clint. It's going to be ok. Just breathe."

He did so. Her tone was soft, calm, if he knew her better he'd say caring. She placed her hand gently on his chest and moved it up and down, dictating his breathing. He found it worked. He began to calm down, his eyes slipping closed.

"Good." Natasha whispered after what seemed like an eternity. Probably only a few moments. "I assume you don't know, but mind if I ask why you were bleeding out in a ditch?"

He shifted uncomfortably. First time he could feel that bitch of a pain she mentioned in his calf.

Honestly, he had no idea. He couldn't recall anything that could have put him there. No reason as to why someone would want him dead or no person who could hate him that much in the first place.

She asked it in such a calm way. It confused him. He had no idea who she was or if this was some trap by the ones out to get him. He glanced around the room once more and a deeper frown settled on his features.

None of this made any sense. She made no sense. Something was wrong, his gut knew it, but his mind told him to just be grateful she saved his ass.

"I don't know." Clint croaked.

She nodded in understanding and poured him another glass of water. Her jaw tensed for just a moment as she passed the glass to him. She didn't believe Clint, and who could blame her for it?

"I've seen this in soldiers who cross our care sometimes." She said softly. When he downed the glass Natasha tucked the sheet around him a little more. "I think they try block out the event a little so their minds can rest."

Soldiers..

That was one of the options swimming in his mind. Could that be who he was? How could he find out?

A shaft of sunlight caught its tip before he noticed it. Whatever she had him on slowed his reflexes and senses something awful.

Only now could Clint see the hypodermic needle in her hand. He tried shimmy away as it approached his leg but he was too slow. A sharp inhale followed the prick as it pieced his skin.

Panic spread through him just like the liquid did.

Afraid of needles.. Can't be a soldier if that's true!

"What the hell is that?" He spat, trying his best to sit up. Her hand held a lot more force than before.

"Relax Clint.." Said Natasha softly. She guided him back to a lying position. "It'll help you sleep. You need it."

For a moment he tried to resist it, but his eyes were very quickly starting to droop as a numbness spread throughout him. He could just make out the shape of Natasha moving round him and a chilling sense of dread filled his senses.

If she wanted to kill you or knew someone who did then you'd be six foot under right now! Get a grip!

He let his eyes close as his mind began to shut everything down.

Rest. Get your strength back.

Then you can figure out who the hell you are. And what the hell you did to end up here.

An image, not the one he tried cling to before. No, this was a different one. Bullets shredded some stuffed dummies, a man laughed and pulled Clint from the weapon and to his feet. We'll go back to celebrate! Bullets shredded some stuffed dummies, then his mind went black.