Warning: language, mention of drug use, some blood.
I do not own the Avengers.
Between the two of them, Tony and Natasha managed to get Clint off the floor and maneuvered him to his room upstairs. They dumped him on the bed, and, after a moment's hesitation, Natasha yanked off his boots. She turned on the light next to the bed and pulled Clint's right hand closer. She saw that the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish stream. His left hand was doing better—it had stopped bleeding entirely. He had numerous lacerations on his arms and back, but only one or two were still slowly leaking blood. Maybe, she thought, they could avoid medical all together.
"Stark. I need water. And a washcloth. And tweezers. And...superglue, if you have it."
Of course he had superglue. Who did she think he was?
Tony disappeared into the bathroom and returned a few moments later with a stack of washcloths and towels, the tweezers, and a basin of warm, soapy water. "Do you want the superglue for what I think you do?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She nodded. "Yeah."
"Okay. I have something that'll work better. It's in my lab, I'll be right back."
While he was gone, Natasha set about carefully cleaning the wounds on Clint's hands. She pulled out shard after shard of glass, combing over his hands meticulously to make sure she didn't leave any behind.
Tony returned when she was about halfway through cleaning the blood away from the wounds on Clint's back and arms. He stood in the doorway, watching her work for a few minutes. When she'd finished, he said, "Here," and handed her a small tube. "It's like that liquid stitches shit, but better. It's stickier, more water proof, and longer lasting. I made it myself."
She nodded. "Could you go find some gauze and tape?"
Tony, prone to blowing himself up in the lab, kept a pretty well stocked first aid supply. "Sure. Rolled gauze, or pads?"
"Both, if you have it."
He ducked back out of the room, glad to both be useful and to get away from the blood.
Natasha uncapped the tube and, taking Clint's hand, squeezed a line of the adhesive into the worst cut. She held the lips of the wound closed as the substance hardened, sealing the injury. She repeated the process for the largest cuts on his hands and fingers.
When Tony returned, she took the offered gauze and rolled some around Clint's knuckles. "Should I immobilize his hand, do you think?"
Tony shrugged.
Natasha sighed, deciding against immobilization, and rolled gauze around Clint's other hand. She used Tony's miracle adhesive to close the worst of Clint's remaining wounds, and then used gauze pads to cover as much of the damage as she could. Satisfied with her work, she tossed all of the bloody washcloths into the water basin and sat back in her chair with a sigh.
She was asleep in minutes.
Clint slept for over fourteen hours, and when he awoke, it was with a start. He sat up, gasping. In a second, he felt hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down. He struggled against the pressure, lashing out.
"...Clint! Barton! Calm down! Barton!" His brain struggled to make out the words. He thrashed for another second, but then it clicked. He recognized that voice. Tasha. He sagged back onto the bed.
For a moment, the pair looked at each other, almost warily. Clint, unable to bear his disadvantageous perspective, dragged himself up so that he was sitting. The stare down continued. Finally, after an eon or so, Natasha asked cautiously, "Clint...what do you remember from last night?"
There was a lengthy pause.
Then, "Oh, Christ," he said, his voice dripping with shame and self-loathing. Natasha took that to mean he remembered rather a lot.
"It's okay, Barton," she said, the words sounding weak and useless to her own ears.
"Yeah? In what fucking universe is this okay?" he snarled. She must have sounded weak and useless to him, as well.
He looked taken aback by his own words. He offered a mumbled, "Shit, Tasha, I'm sorry," and lapsed into silence, clearly engaged in some serious, vicious, mental self-flagellation.
Well, fuck that.
"Get up, Barton," she said. "You're not laying here all day. You need to get your ass up, apologize to Stark, and get the fuck to work." He glared at her, incredulous. "Move it!"
Surprised into action, he did exactly that.
Ten minutes later, standing in the shower (which he'd had to bargain with Natasha to take—she didn't want him getting his injuries wet. He'd had to promise to let her re-dress everything), he began to notice that he was ravenous. Possibly more hungry than he'd ever been in his life, actually. He abruptly shut the water off and stepped out of the bathtub. He dried himself off as quickly as possible and then, clad only in his boxers, ventured in search of food.
Natasha was sitting in the kitchen, sipping at a cup of coffee. Completely ignoring her, he opened the pantry, pulled out a box of cereal, poured a bowl, and added milk. He began wolfing it down.
"Jesus, Clint, when was the last time you ate?" Natasha said, torn between awe and disgust at the sheer volume of processed carbs he was consuming. He didn't reply.
"Clint?"
He slammed his fist on the table, sloshing the milk in his bowl, and growled, "What?"
Woah.
"Nothing," she said, resisting the urge to back away from the table. Clint resumed eating.
He was in the middle of his third bowl when Stark made an appearance.
"Good morning, happy people. Geez. Good morning, hungry people," he amended, noticing the nearly-empty box of Lucky Charms at Clint's elbow.
"Stark," Clint greeted him, awkwardly.
Tony's face looked, if possible, worse than it had the previous night. With time, the bruises had darkened into deep shades of black and blue.
Looking at him, Clint realized, was causing guilt to squirm and gnaw away at his gut. He figured he'd better get this over with. "Sorry about, uh, last night." God, his head was killing him. And maybe all those Lucky Charms hadn't been such a good idea...
Tony shrugged. "It's in the past, Barton. Next time you're going to tweak out, though, use someone else's face as a punching bag." Glib, but forgiving. As far as Tony Stark goes, that was downright diplomatic.
But not diplomatic enough. Without warning, Clint slid his chair back from the table and stood up, fists clenched. "What the fuck did you say?"
"Barton!" Natasha barked. "What the hell?"
Clint looked surprised to find he was standing. And then he promptly vomited three bowls of Lucky Charms onto the floor. He reflected that 'What the hell' was a pretty good question.
"Guess...this was a bad idea," he choked out, the taste of partially-digested cereal and stomach acid thick on his tongue. No one, including Clint himself, knew if he was referring to the Lucky Charms, standing up so quickly, or the shit-show from the previous night.
Tony looked about three seconds from following Clint's example and vomiting on the floor.
Natasha decided that breakfast was over.
He was, she decided, not really in any shape to go to work.
Instead, she'd taken him to the bathroom and re-dressed all of his wounds, adding more 'Tony's Miracle Medical Adhesive' where necessary. Then she'd set him up in front of the television and called Fury. He wasn't an easy man to lie to, but she was one of the best spies in the world, so she persevered. And, apparently, no one wanted to hang out with people suffering from "massive food poisoning." Natasha filed that information away for future reference.
When she'd returned, Clint had been sitting on the couch in almost exactly the same position she'd left him, remote control untouched on the cushion next to him, eyes open but unseeing. Slowly, they drifted closed, only to snap open again a few seconds later.
Clearly, he was exhausted.
"You can sleep, you know," she said.
He gave a humorless chuckle. "Think I'll pass."
She didn't know how long he'd have a choice.
They sat together in silence, as one program ended and another began. During the first commercial break, Clint said, seemingly out of nowhere, "You must think I'm an idiot."
Trying not to sound too vehement, Natasha said, "Yes. I do." A few moments passed before she added, "Why didn't you say something?"
"What should I have said?" Clint asked. "That I was afraid to do something I've been doing since the day I was born? That I'm such a fucking coward that I couldn't handle doing something that comes naturally to every other person on the fucking planet? That even the idea of going to sleep makes me want to throw up or—or what, Tasha? What should I have said?" His eyes were wide and desperate, his voice threaded through with nervous exhaustion and despair. He could hear his own weakness echoing in his ears, and he hated himself for it.
Natasha sighed, pushing back against the frustration and anger rising up inside of her. "You could have said any of that. Clint. You should have said anything, rather than...this. Do you even know how dangerous drug addiction is?"
"Save the lecture, Tasha." God, he sounded so tired.
"I'll take that as 'no, I don't know how dangerous this is.' Christ, Clint, amphetamine can cause heart attacks, seizures...strokes. Withdrawal can be fatal. Withdrawal from Valium can be fatal, too. Were you thinking at all?"
"I'm not going through withdrawal," he said shortly.
"Not yet," Natasha replied.
"Not ever," Clint said, his words edged with steel.
Dumbfounded, Natasha said, "You can't be serious. After last night? You could have killed Stark. You could have killed yourself." The emotions she'd been fighting against for days rose in a wave, and broke free. "Oh, and in case you've forgotten, you work for one of the most powerful governmental agencies in the world. Drugs will get you fired, because they can get you killed. What the hell is SHIELD supposed to do with a speed freak assassin?" Her voice had grown progressively louder, and she had leaned closer to him, so that as she finished her diatribe, she was practically yelling in Clint's face.
He closed his eyes, as if blocking out her visage could block out her words. When she was through, he opened them, slowly. "I think they'd do about the same thing they'd do with one who's so fucking crazy he's afraid to go sleep," he said, calmly. "Tasha, where's my bag?"
Natasha slowly shook her head, all ability for speech deserting her.
Clint stood and walked away.
This ended up being shorter than I had anticipated, but it seemed like a decent place to stop.
Next chapter will have more bad decisions and lots of angst. Who doesn't love that combination?
Thanks to everyone who's reading and commenting, I really appreciate feedback.