"Everything is going to be alright, Clint. Take a deep breath, calm your mind."

Clint struggles against his bonds. His wrists are constrained above his head, fingers numb.

"Surrender, and you will find meaning. Surrender, and you will find release."

The screen in front of him turns a soothing purple. He does his best to look anywhere else.

"You know what's best, and what's best is you comply."

"No," Clint argues. He grunts as white-hot pain shoots through his entire body.

"Compliance will be rewarded. Are you ready to comply, Agent Barton?"

Clint gasps awake, fighting his way out of the sheets.

"Clint," a soft voice calls. Hands land gently on his arms.

He blinks. "Tasha."

"Where are you?" she asks.

"Safe house. New Jersey."

She gives him a gentle look.

Right. They had relocated a couple days ago. He shakes his head.

"Stark Tower," he corrects.

"Good. You're safe, Clint."

He nods, taking deep breaths. He slowly comes back to himself. She gently guides him back to the bed.

"I'm sorry," he says as she tucks the sheets around him.

"Not your fault," Natasha replies, slipping back into bed.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Dread slowly weighs on Clint's chest.

"Hydra has this brainwashing method," he says the words slowly. He almost can't believe he is actually saying them. He had been working up the courage to talk to her about it since the first night in the safe house. "I think they tried it on me."

She takes his hand, squeezing it gently. "Do you know how long they were using the technique?"

He shakes his head. "Not exactly, but it can't have been more than a few hours, maybe a day or two at most."

"It usually takes awhile to break someone down enough to be open to persuasion," she explains. "You're okay, Clint."

He squeezes her hand tightly, looking into her eyes. "Promise me, if I get triggered somehow, that you'll stop me. Whatever it takes."

She squeezes back. "I won't let you hurt anyone."

But it wasn't enough. He leans forward, looking into her eyes. "That includes you too, Nat."

She gives him a small smile. "Me too."

"Okay," he sighs. It isn't what he wants, but he wasn't even sure how he had wanted her to respond. She could have blown it off or locked him up.

It'll have to do, he decides.

He melts into the mattress as Natasha curls protectively around him. He drifts back to sleep.

"It wasn't your fault."

He is so beyond done hearing that sentence. It never helps. His arm swings of its own accord, his hand curled into a fist. Halfway toward her face, he finds that he actually does want to hit her. It's not like sparring. It's not practice. He wants to cause real damage. He wants to hear her jaw crack under the pressure. And it scares him a little.

She catches the blow before it connects with her cheek. Her are eyes wide, but not with concern. She gives him a hard stare, digging her fingernails into his skin.

He bites his lip against the pinpricks of pain. It's a warning.

"If that's how you're going to repay me."

She leaves the sentence unfinished. She could break his arm in less than two seconds if she wanted. He isn't sure why she doesn't. He deserves it.

He swallows, surprised to find that he is blinking back tears.

"Just stop trying to help," he says softly.

She releases his hand. Well, now she's concerned.

"Why?"

"It doesn't work."

"You think you can't be saved, Clint. And you couldn't be more wrong."

He snorts and turns away. She should really just give up.

"So you're sure you two aren't together?" Stark asks over breakfast.

"Pretty sure," Clint says, taking another bite of his cereal. Natasha is busy using Stark's databases and computing power to run a search on the missing Agent Henry. Clint wanted to join her, but she insisted he eat breakfast.

"Very, very sure?" he asks again, raising an eyebrow.

Clint rolls his eyes. This has been a common occurrence since he and Natasha appeared at Stark Tower two days ago. Stark is annoyingly obsessed with their relationship status.

"I'm going to say this slowly so you understand," Clint replies. "We're friends. Best friends. Moooooove oooooon."

"But she has the necklace," Stark insists, almost whispering the last two words.

Clint nearly chokes on his Lucky Charms. "You need a life, dude," he chuckles.

But he is unperturbed. "She is only the second hottest woman on Earth, Barton. Why are you squandering your chance?"

"Second?" Clint asks as Natasha strolls into the kitchen. She ignores the men and heads straight for the coffee pot.

"Pepper's first," Stark says and then looks over to Natasha. "Fair warning: he drank straight from that pot." He even points a finger at the other man.

Natasha gives Clint her "Was that necessary, Barton?" look and pours a cup anyway.

Clint shrugs and drinks the milk from the bottom of his bowl.

Stark just stares as Natasha takes a sip of her coffee.

"We've bled all over each other in the field," Natasha sighs. "A little spit isn't going to kill me."

He groans in frustration. "See? This is why people think you two are a couple."

"What people? By my count, it's just you," Clint says, attempting to examine Natasha's face for any hints on the research. She doesn't give away much, as usual.

Natasha cuts Stark off before he can reply.

"I'm not his type," she says.

Stark looks to him for confirmation, but Clint doesn't give him anything.

"Any progress?" he asks instead.

She shakes her head. "Barely. Nothing promising."

"If I was allowed to help with your super secret research project, I wouldn't have to pass the time thinking about your personal lives," Stark grouses.

Clint snorts. "You'll get over it."

"Clint?" Natasha calls.

He groans, pulling the blanket over his head. She needs to be quieter. It's just cruel.

There are a few moments of blissful silence until she runs into his discard pile. Glass bottles knock against each other, echoing in the small space.

"Aw, Tasha, really?" he mumbles, covering his ears.

And now she's poking him. Will the torture never end?

He moves the blanket to glare at her. "I don't remember giving you a key."

Natasha smirks. "Never needed one, bird brain."

"Whatever. Can you just, you know, leave the stuff on the table?"

"Aren't you supposed to stop drinking?"

"It's not like the doctor can prescribe not consuming something."

She scans the room. He knows she's counting the empty bottles. He hasn't cleaned in awhile. Her gaze hardens when she looks back at him.

He knows that look. "Wait, Nat, no. I'll be good."

It's too late. She's already walking toward the kitchen. She's opening the cabinets. He attempts to follow her, but trips when his foot is caught in the blanket. When he finally crosses the five feet between his couch and the kitchen, she's already half way through destroying his stash.

"I paid money for those," he argues.

"That's a shame," she replies, continuing to dump bottles down the sink.

"That one's vodka. You can't disgrace your homeland like this."

She eyes say "don't try me" as she empties the bottle. "It's a ten dollar knock off. It's worthless."

"Actually, it's worth twelve, but whatever."

He leans against the counter as she continues to ruin his life.

"You're doing the rest," she says, pulling him toward the sink.

"What? No, not fair," he protests as she shoves a whiskey bottle into his hand.

She crosses her arms and waits.

Clint looks down at the bottle. She had already removed the cap thing – what was it called? It's spongy. Whatever. Point is, she made it easier on him than she had to, which he guesses is kinda nice.

She's still staring at him when he looks up.

"Fine. Bye, whiskey," he mutters and slowly pours the bottle down the sink.

"Good," Natasha says. "Here's another one."

He sighs and empties that one too.

"I expect you to be good while I'm gone," she says once he begins pouring out the third bottle.

"Am I eight now?" he quips on reflex. Then, the rest of the sentence catches up to him. He stops pouring and looks at her. "What do you mean while you're gone?"

"Keep going," she reminds him. He obeys.

"I have an assignment," she continues. "It's deep cover."

He doesn't stop pouring this time. "Where?"

"Russia."

"How long?"

"Six months to a year."

The bottle is empty now. He feels hollow. He sets it gently on the counter.

"And you're leaving soon."

"Tomorrow," she supplies.

He nods. "Good luck."

Natasha steps close to him, putting her hand under his chin. She gently guides his gaze to meet hers.

"You're not alone in this," she says. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"You're leaving," he reminds her.

"Fury won't let anything happen to you either."

He shakes his head. Why does that matter?

"You aren't alone, Clint. Don't close yourself off."

"Okay," he says, smiling. "Really, Tasha, I'll be okay."

"You better be here when I get back."

He nods. She nods.

She leaves. He watches.

"Bye, Natasha," he says to his empty apartment.