His eyes slip closed at the command and that helps, pushes back the roiling dance of his stomach, the pounding just behind his temples, the dizziness that seems a part of every movement he makes these days. He's able, without the distraction of his sight, to slow his breathing, matching it to hers. And that, more than anything, would convince him--if he were aware enough to know--that he wasn't himself, because there is little Clint values in the world as much as his sight. It is his lifeline.

But their breaths are matched, chests rising and falling in the same pattern, same rhythm and then his hand is on her chest, and he can feel her heart beat and something in him remembers the importance of a heartbeat. He couldn't say why, or what it was for, but he remembers there's something to this, about settling your heartbeat, about finding the spaces between each solid thump.

He feels her heart and he settles, sinks down into the stance he's learned as familiar,free hand moving off his head, relaxing just that much more, slipping down to the back of his neck, legs spreading just slightly as his feet automatically line up with his shoulders. She's right, his body remembers this in some way, even if his addled mind does not.