AN: I'm just coming out of a huge bout of writer's block, and have a stack of fairly long Winterhawk prompts to catch up on (not to mention unfinished/requested fics), but my dad and brother were watching Breaking Bad and this idea grabbed at my feels and made me write. So to everyone waiting for me to write something for them: I'm so sorry! It will happen, just give me a bit of time!

Looking for Cloud Nine

The den was dark and stifled. There was no air so much as misty, smoky clouds that clung like cobwebs to the face, and Clint had to brush the fumes out of his face as he scanned each dishevelled body for signs of Bucky. Each excuse of a mattress had its own odour, variations of sweat, piss and vomit, the occupants' expressions ranging from blissed-out to terror-stricken, and Clint hoped he found Bucky in a better state than most of the addicts he passed over. He'd forgotten just how badly you could let yourself fall, and once again thanked his lucky stars he'd had the sense to get out when he did.

It took him five minutes of wading through filth and bodies before Clint finally came across a familiar shape. He was sprawled out in a far corner, half-closed eyes unfocused as Clint crouched beside him. His skin and hair were slick with sweat, making parts of his t-shirt appear darker even in the poor light, and he was too warm under Clint's hand. "Bucky," he called, shaking his shoulder. "Bucky it's Clint. You in there?" He pressed two fingers to Bucky's neck, and the other man blinked. "Come on, we're getting you out of here."

"Wh… Who…"

"It's me. It's Clint."

Bucky stared blearily at him, a bitter grin carving its way onto his face. "Ha. Funny."

"Not being funny, Buck. Now help me out here and let's go."

"No," he mumbled, and when Clint tried to hook his arm over his shoulders he lashed out. "Said no! Fuck off!"

Ignoring the smarting along his jaw, Clint grappled with Bucky's wrists. "Bucky – hey – cut that out!" All it took was for him to have a hold on both arms for Bucky to suddenly go limp, the fight leaving him in an instant. Clint swallowed. "It's really me, Buck. Tasha called, said she hadn't seen you in a while. Wanted me to help find you."

Even as he spoke, Bucky was shaking his head. "Not givin' you anythin'," he slurred.

"You're the only thing I'm here for."

"Stop – just stop lyin'." He tugged his wrists free, rolling slowly onto his back. "Clint doesn't come here 'nymore. Says he's… Says he's clean, now."

"Yeah I am," he murmured. "And if I'd have known my getting clean would mean you getting further into shit, I'd have forced you to come with me." Bucky didn't move, so he reached forward and pulled gently on his arm. "Come on, Buck."

He yanked it away. "No."

"Please."

"No!"

"Why not?"

Closing his eyes, Bucky breathed out shakily. "Say something Clint would never say," he whispered.

"What?"

"You're not really him. Just a… halluc'nation. That means I can make you say whatever the fuck I want. So, prove it: say somethin' he'd never say."

Sighing, Clint dropped his head and ran a hand down his face. If this had been any other person, he'd have given up by now and insisted Natasha go in for them. Instead, he shifted onto the mattress with Bucky, sitting against the wall and thought carefully about what he was about to say. "I was never mad at you. When I said all those things about you just being another of Lukin's brainwashed followers, I didn't – I wasn't thinking. Truth is… I was mad at myself. For how far I'd let us fall. For not being able to make you realise as well. And that's why I left; I thought seeing me pick myself up might make you want to do the same." He glanced at the head beside his hip. "Should've known you'd cut me out. And that – that hurt. Really did make me mad at you. But regardless of how much you hate me, I can't let you carry on destroying yourself like this. Being clean is… it's not bad. And I wanna help you get there too; because I don't hate you, Bucky. I hate that you're stubborn."

At first, he wondered if he'd said too much, and Bucky had fallen asleep beside him. He was completely still – until he opened his eyes, one tear trickling out at the corner. "You can't be real," he whispered brokenly.

"I am."

"… No, you…" He tried to sit up, shoulders hunched over his lap. "You can't, you – you hate –"

As his face crumpled, Clint reached out to him one more time, and the moment his hand made contact Bucky fell against him, boneless. Clint held him close, one hand threading through sweaty strands of hair as he tried to come up with the platitudes to soothe him. This time, though, he couldn't find the words. He could only hope that the sincerity of his speech had gotten through to Bucky, and that sooner or later, they'd have what they used to have – without the pain and heartbreak addiction had cost them.