So, I'm really new to writing. And I can never tell when my stories or going to be one-shots. I can barely settle on genres or ratings. In fact, I can't even select the language that this is written in with any level of confidence, though I suspect it might be English.
The point of this is, I don't know where this is going.
That said, enjoy.
Warnings: language, drug use, some blood.
I do not own the Avengers.
She got the call two days later.
It's been two days of vacillating between being angry at Clint and being angry at herself for walking away. That's not how she usually does things. Usually, she can stand strong. Usually, she can do whatever needs to be done, with no hesitation.
The problem, she thought, was that, for once, she hadn't actually known what needed to be done.
It was 12:30 in the morning when her phone rang, and Natasha was annoyed. She'd been planning on making it an early night for once, maybe having a bath and, if she was lucky, getting something approaching a normal amount of sleep. It was with an irritated snarl, then, that she ripped her phone from her pocket, and answered it with a growled, "This is Romanoff."
"Geez, someone's touchy."
Tony Stark. Wonderful.
"What do you want, Stark?"
He didn't immediately reply.
"Stark?"
He paused a moment longer. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically sober. "I think you need to get here. There's something wrong with Barton."
She recalled that Clint was working with Stark to develop some new, lightweight, flexible body armor. Specifically, something that he could wear in cold temperatures—that had sleeves, but didn't restrict his movement or get in the way of his bowstring. Stark had, finally, come up with a few prototypes earlier in the week and had invited Clint to his labs to try them out. She figured Clint must have decided that today was the day to stop by.
All of that was secondary, though. "What do you mean, 'there's something wrong with Barton?'" she snapped
.
"...Just get here. Soon. Like, now." The enormous hesitation with which Tony was speaking unnerved her. He was never one to be so reserved.
With all warm, comfortable thoughts of baths and beds driven from her mind, she strode purposefully to her car.
Stark Tower was mostly dark at this hour, with only a few lights visible on the upper floors. Tony's labs, and the Avenger's quarters, Natasha thought. She knew that Rogers and Banner lived there full time. Her and Clint stayed there often enough to have their own rooms. She swiped her access card at the door, and made her way to the elevator. She pulled out her phone to call Stark and get his location.
"Mr. Stark is on the seventy-sixth floor, Agent Romanoff," JARVIS said out of the darkness, scaring her half to death. Though she didn't let it show.
She pressed button for the correct floor with more force than was strictly necessary.
Tony, as it turned out, was pacing back and forth in front of the elevator. When she stepped off, he turned to face her, and it was only through years of practice at controlling her emotions that she was able to keep her expression carefully neutral.
Stark's right eye was swollen closed, rapidly turning dark shades of purple and red. His lip had been split, and although the bleeding had stopped, a smear of blood across his face traced the path his hand had taken when he'd wiped his mouth.
Someone had taken a few good swings at him, and she had a sinking feeling that she knew who.
"Ah, Natasha, you look radiant tonight," he greeted her. "Really, you do. I hope I didn't pull you away from anything. Like a date. Or...killing someone. Same difference, really. Would you like a drink? I was going to have one. Or two. Maybe—"
"Can it, Stark," she interrupted him. "What the fuck happened to your face?"
He smirked, as much as having half of his face swollen to twice its normal size would allow. "Yeah, about that. You need to talk to your boyfriend."
She let the "boyfriend" bit slide. "Where is he?"
"Lab three. It'll be the first one on your right when you go down that hall. JARVIS, please allow Ms. Romanoff to enter lab three at her discretion."
"Certainly, sir," the AI replied.
Natasha wasn't sure what she was going to find in lab three, but the state of Tony's face had her worried. She walked down the hall, her mind conjuring an expansive array of worst-case scenarios.
At first glance, though, it didn't seem to be so bad. Through the glass walls of the lab, she could see that Clint was sitting on a stool, head slightly bowed, hands grasping the seat tightly on either side of him. He was shirtless, though what she assumed was Stark's prototype armor was on the table next to him. As she got closer, she could see that one of his feet was tapping an irregular, frenetic rhythm against the legs of the stool. He was using the other foot to spin the chair around in half circles, first one way, then the other. Back and forth, incessant, nervous movement.
Bracing herself, she stepped through the sliding door.
The spinning and tapping stopped abruptly as she entered, but he did not raise his head, nor did he release his death-grip on the seat of the stool. Now that she was closer, she could see that he was thrumming with energy, his muscles tense, his face and chest beaded with sweat. He was grinding his teeth together, his jaw clenched tightly, and his cheeks were flushed. The area around him was littered with shattered glass and some liquid that she really hoped was just water. Bits and pieces of what might have once been a robot were visible a bit further into the lab. Here and there, bright red drops of blood spackled the floor.
Natasha initially thought that the blood had come from Stark's face, but then she saw that it was actually coming from jagged cuts on Clint's knuckles.
"Barton," she said, cautiously.
His head snapped up and he focused on her with bloodshot eyes, pupils so dilated that they were circled by only a thin ring of blue.
Christ, this was a mess. She didn't know what she was doing. She did know that Stark was undoubtedly watching them through his extensive surveillance system, though, and that made it even harder to act.
But then, to hell with it, she thought, almost savagely. Stark already knows something's up, he's not stupid. And if Barton didn't want the whole world knowing he was a drug addict, he shouldn't have become one in the first place.
To Clint, she said, "How much did you take?"
He gave a short bark of laughter, and began drumming the fingers of one hand against his thigh. "Enough."
The cuts on his knuckles looked like they'd need stitches. "And when was the last time you slept?" she asked, determined to keep her cool. "Have you since the last time we...talked?"
He shook his head.
She pressed on. "So it's been two days? Three?"
He began spinning his chair back and forth again. "No. Six. Or seven. I don't know."
Natasha sighed. "Barton. Clint...you need to sleep."
Clint clenched his jaw and resumed grinding his teeth. Okay, she could leave that point for later.
"What happened in here?" she asked, gesturing at the mess.
In an explosion of movement, Clint leapt off his stool and began pacing, glass crunching under his boots. "Stark. He's a fucking idiot."
Well, everyone knew that. But not everyone took it upon themselves to introduce Tony to their fists.
Natasha said, "So you decided to punch him in the face? At least twice?"
Clint laughed. It was a manic, strained sound. "It was only twice. Not for lack of trying, though." He sat back down, gave his chair a half-spin, and stood again. He swayed as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. When it passed, he found he was sitting again. So he stood. And paced.
Natasha was becoming fatigued just watching him.
"Look," Clint said, after a couple of laps around the lab. "It's not my fault Stark doesn't know when the fuck to back off."
Somewhere in the building, Natasha imagined Stark was sputtering indignantly at that. "What did he do?" she asked.
"What did he do?" Clint spat. "He was all, 'Put this shirt on and stand over there so I can shoot you, Barton,' and I'm like, 'Okay, whatever.' But then this little fucking robot comes along and it's trying to, I don't know, pin me in place or some shit so I can't move, and I'm like, 'Tony, stop with the BDSM shit,' and he was laughing at me, 'Tasha, and I couldn't move so I broke that fucking robot and then I broke Stark's fucking face."
Natasha resolved to get Tony's side of the story at some point, but she had a decent idea of what had happened. As a safety precaution (she hadn't even known that Stark knew what those were—what was he thinking, testing his new armor on a person first?), Tony probably had used one of his robots to immobilize Clint so that he didn't move and cause Tony to shoot him somewhere other than the new body armor. Clint hadn't taken being restrained well, and the drug running in his veins had acted like gasoline to the fire of his panic. He had exploded.
She surveyed the damage to the room and whistled. "Looks like you broke more than his face," she said. "How'd you hurt your hands?"
He glanced down at his hands, looking puzzled. Upon seeing the gashes, his expression morphed into one of surprise, and he laughed that awful laugh again. "Well, shit. Didn't even notice, 'Tasha."
She closed her eyes. Those cuts needed medical attention. But she didn't think that she could bring him to medical in this state. Drug use was grounds for dismissal from SHIELD, and he was already on shaky ground after the mind-control incident. While she knew that he carried no blame for what had happened, there were others (including Clint) who were not so forgiving.
Her musings were interrupted by JARVIS. "Agent Romanoff, Mr. Stark requires a word with you. And with Agent Barton, if he is amenable, and will refrain from further attacks on Mr. Stark's person and property."
Clint jumped up (when had he sat down? He couldn't remember doing that), eager to get out of this increasingly small space. However, as his feet touched the ground, the whole world tilted on him, and he found himself lying on the floor, amid the broken glass, staring at Natasha's shoes.
"Fuck, Barton," she hissed, crouching next to him and placing her fingers against his carotid artery. She could feel his pulse fluttering against her fingers, his heart beating far, far too fast.
The broken glass was digging into his arms, his back, becoming embedded in his skin and muscles, and then he was laughing, eyes closed and arms wrapped tightly around him. The glass cut deeply, but he was too far gone to care, flying too high, all awareness thrown out the window.
"If Mr. Stark wants a word," Natasha said, her voice calm and steady over Clint's terrible laughter, "He's going to have to come to us, I think."
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