Warnings: just the combined bad language of Clint and Tony.

My beta, irite, is the glue that holds this whole process together. And who doesn't love glue?

I do not own The Avengers.


There were approximately a million places to get Thai food in New York, but there was only one place that Clint liked. He couldn't pronounce the name (the Thai language was one of the few languages that he just struggled with), so he referred to it consistently as 'that one place' and Natasha knew what he meant.

Instead of dropping the cat off, though, they decided that they'd get take-out. Natasha could tell that Clint was still in a lot of pain, and she figured she'd save him the trouble of acting like he wasn't. She didn't say as much, instead opting for something along the lines of "It'll just be easier this way." Not her best lie, but Clint was distracted enough that he didn't notice.

Natasha ran into the restaurant while Clint waited in the car, holding the cat and trying to prevent it from squirming away and commencing an exploratory mission through the vehicle. He was more or less successful, and by the time Natasha made her way back to the car, he'd managed to get a pretty firm grip on the damn animal.

"Pad thai good for you?" Natasha asked, sliding into the driver's seat and placing several boxes in the backseat.

Clint nodded, shifting the cat. "Sure. Sounds good. As long as there's a lot of it." He didn't know how he had overlooked it before, but now that he thought about it, he was hungry.

"Gotcha covered, Barton, don't worry," Natasha reassured him. She was so thrilled that he was showing an interest in dinner that she'd ordered enough food for four or five people.

The cat was apparently very interested in the food; as soon as Natasha shut the car door, he began wiggling in Clint's arms, trying to get to the boxes. Clint held onto him tightly, though. "Nice try, cat, but you're not getting my fucking food. Besides, you don't want to eat that shit."

Natasha shot Clint a quick look. "You're conversing with a cat, Barton."

This, Clint was aware of. But it was easy to explain. "I have a concussion."

Natasha snorted. "Right. Keep telling yourself that."

"What're you saying, exactly, Nat?"

In response, she smirked and turned the radio on. "I think you know."

They didn't converse for the rest of the ride back to the Tower. Clint was too preoccupied trying to keep the cat from escaping (which demanded his full attention) and Natasha was too busy driving (with that little half-smile on her face again, what the hell was that?) so neither of them really minded the quiet.

Back in his rooms, Clint set the cat down on the floor in the kitchen before moving to the cupboards and pulling out plates and cutlery.

"You cleaned," Natasha observed, looking around her.

"Yeah. You didn't notice that earlier?" Clint peered quickly into the cat's bowls before adding more kibble. "I put like, a whole hour's worth of effort into it." He added more water to the other bowl. With a purr, the cat commenced eating.

"Of course I noticed you've decided to stop living in your own filth. I just didn't say anything," Natasha answered, dishing up the food and pouring drinks. "It's a nice change, though." She handed him a plate.

Clint remembered the last time she'd been in his apartment. It had been five or six days ago, and he'd been spectacularly hungover. She'd stopped by with the paperwork from SHIELD he needed to fill out so he could get back to work ("You need to get back to work, Barton. Make some sort of damn progress towards it, anyway.") and found him on the filthy kitchen floor, near a puddle of vomit, half-full fifth of Jack Daniel's close at hand.

He'd shot her down, of course, since his idea of 'progress' at the time was managing to clean up the vomit before it had congealed into a semi-solid mass. And he knew the first part of getting back to work was going to be a psych eval, and that was something that wasn't going to happen.

So, yeah, he could see why Natasha might find this situation improved. "Cat's a bastard," Clint said, by way of reply. "Gave me a hell of a wake-up call, so I figured if I cleaned, he'd have less shit to knock over. Might be able to get some rest."

Natasha nodded. "Well, it's good that something finally motivated you to get your shit together. The three-week long bender was getting a little hard to watch."

Clint looked up from the food he'd been shoveling into his mouth. "What?"

Natasha looked immediately like she regretted having spoken, but then she set her jaw. "Yeah. Watching you fall the fuck apart for three weeks instead of, I don't know, asking for help was kinda painful, Clint."

He shook his head, taking another bite of his dinner. "I didn't—I don't need help, Nat. What the fuck?"

And now she looked annoyed. "You don't need help? You can't really be that stupid. Look, no one blames you for being a little...rough, after what happened with Loki—"

At the 'L' word, Clint stiffened visibly. Natasha plowed on, though—she'd already started this, and it was time to finish it. "But we've all been trying to get through to you for three weeks, and instead of letting us, you've shut down, Clint. This is the first time in almost a month that I've gotten more than two words out of you, about anything! You need to face what happened, not block it out."

Defensive, now, Clint growled, "What the fuck do you think I've been doing?"

Natasha met his glare. "Hiding from it."

Clint slammed his plate down on the counter. "The fuck I have! You think this is easy? Nat, what I did—"

Apparently unperturbed by the drama happening around him, the cat jumped up on the counter and, unnoticed, began casually licking Clint's fork.

"You didn't do anything, Clint. It was all Loki, and everyone knows that. Except you. Can't you just let it go?" Her gaze flickered momentarily sideways, taking in the cat's activities. "Um, Clint—"

"So, what? You're saying I've been having a pity-party for a month? You think I can just put this behind me? Let it go? It's not that fucking simple." He picked up his plate and fork, and took an angry bite of noodles. Natasha winced. "What?"

She cocked her head to one side, like she was considering something. After several seconds, she answered, "Nothing."

Clint took another bite of food, and Natasha smirked. She sobered quickly, though. "All I'm saying is that...it could be that simple. You haven't been trying, Clint, and it hasn't been easy for any of us, watching you spiral." Cutting off his angry retort, she finished, "And it's good to see you...doing better."

"I'm fine, Nat," Clint growled. "I've been fine."

Natasha shook her head. "No, you haven't been. But I'm finally starting to think you're going to be." She reached a hand out and scratched the cat—who'd been sitting behind them, waiting for one of them to set their plate down—behind his ears. "And if adopting some mangy stray helps you get your head out of your ass, well, I'm all for that."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "You think the cat's going to, what, help me 'heal' or some shit? Where the fuck do you even get these ideas?"

Natasha smirked, putting her empty plate in the sink. "No idea, Barton. Only thing is, since you found this damn cat you've been acting more human than you have in weeks." She gestured to the leftovers. "You want to keep these, or should I see if I can pawn them off on someone else?"

Sulking, now, Clint answered, "I'll keep them."

"Works for me." Natasha headed for the door. Over her shoulder, she said, "The cat was licking your fork, by the way."

The expression on his face was stuck somewhere between revulsion and resignation, and she couldn't help but laugh at him as she slipped out the door.

In her absence, Clint turned to the cat, who was still perched on the counter. "That's fucking disgusting, cat." He tossed his fork in the sink, pulling a clean one out of a drawer. "You lick your asshole. And I ate off that." Somehow, that didn't really affect his appetite (he was...ravenous, still), so he grabbed some more noodles before moving into the living area and settling down in front of the television.

This was a situation he hadn't found himself in for almost a month, and it didn't take him long to register it. The combination of being alone and sober began to weigh on him pretty quickly. Within half an hour, he'd finished eating (marveling at how much food he'd managed to pack away, until he remembered that he hadn't eaten anything in over twenty-four hours) and was left sitting in his darkened apartment with nothing to distract him.

That would not do.

Standing (nearly tripping over the cat in the darkness and sending it scurrying off into the bedroom), Clint made his way back to the kitchen, digging around in the cupboards until he found what he was looking for. He knew Stark would probably sob in horror at the cheap shit he'd taken to drinking, but refining his tastes wasn't the goal here. Escaping was, and this shit was just fine for that.

Moving back to the living room, he sat down and nursed the bottle, flipping absently between channels. Soon, he was feeling warm and sleepy, and he laid back and settled down to watch some movie he'd seen about a thousand times already. Within ten minutes, though, his conversation with Natasha floated to the forefront of his mind, entirely unbidden but, for some reason, unignorable.

He resented the hell out of her implication (okay, it was more of a statement than an implication) that he'd been 'falling the fuck apart' for a month, that he needed some kind of help. That he'd been hiding. "What the fuck does she know?" Clint mused aloud. He felt something land on the couch next to him, and he reached a hand out and began to pet the cat absently. "I'm not hiding, I just don't..."

I just don't know how to face it.

And that was it, wasn't it? He had no idea how to face this, no idea how to move on. The guilt was crushing him, and he was letting it, because he didn't know how to set it down. He didn't even know if he should set it down, if he deserved to be free of it.

All he knew was that he wanted an escape, wanted an easy way out, an easy way to stop thinking about it all the fucking time. A way to shut his mind off, because this was all he could think about, and he was drowning in it. Drowning in guilt, in self-loathing, in rage—at Loki, at himself, at the entire fucking world for letting this sick shit happen. And Nat thought he could just "let it go?"

Clint clenched the neck of the bottle in his hand tightly, dangling it over the edge of the couch. What the fuck does she think I should do?

Adopt a 'mangy stray,' and 'get my head out of my ass' apparently, he thought. Like that's really fucking helpful.

As if he could sense Clint's train of thought, the cat stalked to the other end of the couch before curling into a ball. Clint watched it go.

And, okay, maybe having a pet was a good thing, though Clint thought Natasha's assessment of the benefits was reaching. The damn cat had given him something to focus on other than his own misery, than his own failures and fuckups. The distraction had been welcome, had taken the place of the alcohol, the wandering, had kept him sober and safe longer than he'd been in weeks. Clint couldn't deny that the last 24 hours or so had been...different. He'd felt different, like there might be a point to something again, like something might still matter.

He took another swig from the bottle. So maybe I am getting my head out of my ass. But now what do I do?

"Probably not this," he answered himself, with a small, breathless laugh. "'Cause this is solving so many problems, right, Barton?"

It wasn't though, and something—his conversation with Nat, maybe, or maybe even that fucking cat—had cleared his perspective enough that he could see it. Crystal fucking clear. This wasn't fixing anything. In almost a month, he hadn't fixed a thing. All the booze, the bar fights, the late-night avoidance...it didn't bring those people back to life. It didn't undo what Loki had done. All of the self-punishment in the world wasn't going to do that; it couldn't be done.

Suddenly stunned, Clint said, "I can't fix it." The bottle that had been dangling in his hand fell to the floor, unnoticed, emptying the remnants of its contents onto the carpet. He repeated, "I can't fix that shit. I can't."

The cat, which had moved again, this time to Clint's chest, purred its agreement. Or maybe he was just purring in general. Either way, Clint scratched his ears, dazed.

Is there anything I can fix? Is there anything I can do?

The answer seemed like an unequivocal 'no,' and Clint felt something heavy settle in his gut, a feeling of abject uselessness.

Then, suddenly, came the rage. Because he was Clint Fucking Barton, and he was not 'useless.' And he'd be damned if he'd let Loki take his agency, after he took everything else. To hell with that. He would not be made 'useless.' He'd, well, what had Nat said? He'd get his shit together. He could still do something. Loki was gone, those people were dead, but Clint was still here. Despite his vague, passive efforts to the contrary, he was still here.

And what're you gonna do with that, Barton?

I'm going to get through this, that's what.

Easier said than done, though. "You have any fucking idea where to start with this shit, cat? I don't."

The cat did not answer, and Clint gently picked it up off his chest before sitting up. He cast a glance at the bottle on the floor before standing, swaying. He shook his head. "I'll deal with that tomorrow." He snorted, "I'll deal with a lot of shit tomorrow." Because Natasha was right, and it was time for him to face up to this shit and stop hiding. He didn't know how, no, but he'd get there. He'd figure it out as he went.

One step at a time.

Clint wandered towards his bedroom. With a disinterested sniff at the puddle on the carpet, the cat followed him.


Clint awoke the next morning around 10:00 AM, after more than eight hours of sleep. His ability to sleep at least five consecutive hours had been completely fucked up until the night before, and now here he was, getting eight fucking hours of sleep in a row. It felt like he had stepped into the Twilight Zone. But maybe that was a good thing.

For a moment, he laid in bed, completely shocked. Then he checked his watch to make sure that the clock next to his bed wasn't off. As he was doing that, the cat hopped up onto his bed and walked across him, settling onto his chest.

Clint rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. You're out of food." He threw his blankets (and the cat) off and made his way to the kitchen where he was, predictably, met with an empty dish. "Jesus, if I ate as much as you, I'd be the size of a fucking house. How're you only six pounds?"

He refilled the dish, then stood in his kitchen, surveying the area around him. His epiphany from the previous night was still fresh in his mind, and he had something of a to-do list for the day, but he wasn't quite sure where to start.

Easy shit first, he decided.

Then he frowned. Because really? The first thing he had planned wasn't going to be 'easy' at all.

But, he went to shower, and when he was done he combed through his apartment, through every nook and cranny and cupboard, and gathered all of the alcohol he had left. It was summarily poured down the sink. And he did not mourn its loss, no, but he couldn't deny the faint panic that curled in his stomach as he watched it disappear down the drain.

Fuck that. You don't need this shit.

Clint brought the bottles promptly down to the recycling bins (after stopping to grab the medical tape from his bathroom—he was thinking today!) where, of course, he ran into Stark.

"What're you doing?" Clint asked him. Tony had just pulled his top half out of the plastics recycling chute, and was now peering disconsolately down it.

"Dropped my phone," Tony replied. Then, seeing Clint's bottle collection, "Wow, damn. And Pepper thinks I drink too much."

Clint could not deny that he was curious as to how Tony had managed to drop a phone down a recycling chute, but he thought better of asking. Instead, he glared at the billionaire. "I was cleaning. Decided the booze could go." He dropped the bottles into the bin.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "More power to you, Barton. Congrats and all that. Now. I don't suppose you're willing to rappel down that chute to get my phone?"

Clint snorted, "Fuck no. Take the elevator down to the basement like a normal person. And it's probably broken anyway, Stark."

Tony shrugged. "It was worth a shot. And I built that phone to withstand drops of more than a thousand feet. There's hope." They headed towards the elevator. "So, heard you went to the vet yesterday. Did you get your cat checked out while you were there? Or were you just getting your vaccinations? Bird flu can be hell, Barton."

Clint groaned, pressing the button for the sixty-fifth floor. "That was awful." Seeing that Tony was legitimately interested, though, Clint answered, "Yeah, the cat's fine. Gonna live a long, healthy life."

Tony grimaced, but managed to sound cheery when he said, "Glad to hear it."

Clint got off the elevator on the sixty-fifth floor, heading for the lab where he'd found Bruce the previous morning. The physicist was there, and looking much less frustrated than he had the day before. He greeted Clint with a "Hey, could you hold on a sec? I'm almost done with this."

He went back to typing while Clint wandered around the lab. After a moment, Bruce followed that up with a "Sorry about that, what can I do for you?"

As a response, Clint held up the tape. Bruce took it and set to work. When he was done, Clint asked, indicating his finger, "So, how long 'til this is better?"

Bruce considered. "Five or six weeks, I think. More, if you don't keep it immobile. Why?"

"I...well, I was thinking of getting back to work soon."

Peering over the top of his glasses, Bruce asked, "Oh?"

"Yeah. Just, uh, sitting around isn't really working out for me." Clint smirked. "Figured I might benefit from the distraction. I mean..." he hesitated. "I need a distraction, you know?"

"Work's probably a better distraction than alcohol," Bruce said mildly. "Or bar fights."

"Yeah," Clint agreed. "Five weeks, hey?"

Bruce nodded. "You could probably get cleared for light duty sooner than that, though." Fury had been trying to get Clint back to work since day one, would probably be overjoyed to re-instate the archer.

Clint shook his head though. "No, I think...I have some things I need to work on. This'll give me time."

Bruce looked surprised, but he didn't comment. He stood, and Clint followed suit. "You know, if you ever need to talk, well, we're a pretty screwed up bunch, but one of us might be able to help."

And instead of abruptly shutting down and stalking out like Bruce had expected (in fact, like Clint had done no less than three times people had made this offer previously), Clint gave a small smile and said, "Thanks. I'll let you know."

Clint left the physicist and made his way back up towards his rooms. At the last moment, though, he headed for Natasha's instead. If she wasn't there—she still went to work, after all—that was fine, but she had something that he wanted. He knocked on her door, unable to decide if he wanted her to be there or not.

She was.

"What's up?" Natasha greeted him upon opening her door, trying not to look shocked that he'd come by. After all, this used to be normal only a month ago.

"Um." Why was he here? Oh, yeah. "You had a file for me last week," he told her, referencing the last time she'd stopped by his apartment. "Said you wanted me to look at it?"

She failed at her attempt to seem nonplussed and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. You told me to go fuck myself. Or did you forget that part?"

Honestly? He had. "Look, I'm sorry, I was just—"

Natasha cut him off. "I know. You want to come in?"

Clint shook his head. "No, I want to get this over with. As fast as possible."

"Yeah, okay." She ducked back into her apartment, returning a moment later with a file. "Here. Sure you've got this?" Because this was a huge step forward.

"Fuck no, I'm not. But I'm trying, okay?"

And that was so much more than he'd been doing a week ago, even two days ago, so she smiled at him. "Okay. Good luck."

Clint didn't know if 'good luck' was the correct sentiment for this, but he said "Thanks," anyway.

Back in his own apartment, Clint settled down on the couch with the file after plugging his cell phone into a nearby wall outlet. He opened the folder, laying it on the couch in front of him. Before he'd even read the first line of the first page, his cat jumped up onto the couch and laid down across the papers.

"And here I thought you were supposed to be helping me, cat," Clint told him. "That's what Nat said. This? Not helpful." Gently, he shifted the cat, pulling the file out from underneath.

The first page was a checklist of the steps he needed to take before he could get back to work ("Checklist for Return to Active Duty," it read). At the top of the list, before all of the other items, someone (Fury, of course) had added another line and written 'Fucking Call Me, Barton.'

That seemed pretty unequivocal. Clint sighed, running a hand down the cat's back, before picking up his cell phone.

He dialed the number for Fury's office, entirely unsure of what he was going to say.


Thanks for reading! One more chapter should finish this up. Which is good, because my WIP pile is massive and intimidating.

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