In which Natasha makes a decision. Clint self-medicates. (Set about six months after the Battle of New York.)


A cheerful trill pierces the still night.

Natasha groans, rolling over in bed to answer her phone. She doesn't recognize the number.

She accepts the call.

"Heeeey, 'asha," a low voice slurs. With the amount of background noise, it takes her a moment to recognize his voice.

"Clint?" She sits up in bed, searching the floor for her boots. "Give me a status report. Do you need backup?"

Since New York, Clint has been making a habit of frequenting local bars. Most of the time, it's for a random hook up. But occasionally, he decides to try his own brand of vigilante justice. Natasha hopes he wasn't being too stupid tonight.

"…Back...up," he says slowly. It sounds like he's playing with the phone cord. "Yep. Lots…lots of backup. Bring everyone, Nat. Some guys here. Kind of mean. Should teach them a…lesson."

"Stand down, Hawkeye," she says sternly, pulling on a jacket and her boots. Using his call sign is a cheap move, but it'll get even an extremely drunk Clint to listen. "Where are you?"

"Bar," he says unhelpfully. She rolls her eyes. "Um… something with roses?"

She sighs. Rose's Lounge is a cheap bar about three blocks from his apartment.

"Okay, Clint. I'm en route," she says, grabbing her car keys. "Just stay put. Don't move, you got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbles. She hears him drop the phone. Someone angrily hangs up.


Natasha arrives ten minutes later. She finds Clint in an alley close to the bar. Three men are crowded around him; one has him pressed against the brick wall.

She pulls her car across the mouth of the alley. She steps out, leaning on the open door.

"What's going on here, boys?" she asks, smiling.

"This doesn't concern you," one of the men, obviously the ringleader, replies.

"Tasha!" Clint yells happily. He is thrown into the wall again. The man holding him glares.

"You know this bitch?" he demands.

Clint whistles. "Bad move, bro," He slurs. "She ain't gonna like that you called her that."

Natasha slams the car door, anger rising. Clint has been completely ignoring her since the Battle of New York, except for his drunken late-night phone calls. And now, he has the nerve to tell this pathetic excuse of a man about her mood. While Clint is absolutely right, it still irks Natasha that he is behaving like nothing has changed. Like he hasn't been avoiding her and all of the other Avengers. She is beyond frustrated with this new side of him.

She moves on the leader first, aiming a hard punch to his side. He goes down with a groan. The other men turn toward her, leaving Clint free to punch the second man in the face. He goes down without a fight. Natasha rounds on the third man, pulling him up to his feet. She aims a sharp kick to his groin. He goes down, cursing and glaring at Natasha.

"You call anyone else that again, and I'll do more permanent damage," she says.

Natasha grabs Clint by the shoulder and pulls him toward the car. She shoves him into the backseat before climbing in behind the wheel.

Other than Clint's quiet "Thanks, Nat" the ride back to his apartment is spent in silence. Natasha fumes the entire way.

She parks outside his building, stepping out while Clint tumbles onto the street. She grips his shoulder, leaning his body against the car.

"What is going on, Clint?" she asks, looking directly into his eyes. "Talk to me."

He looks away and swallows. "Doesn't matter," he says.

"This matters," she replies. "You're avoiding me at all times but you call me when you're drunk enough to start a fight."

He sighs. "It's better than sleeping."

"What happens when you sleep?"

He shifts nervously. "Look, Nat, thanks and all, but I need to crash."

She grabs his wrist when he turns to leave. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on, Clint."

He glares at her, giving into her hold. He's too drunk to fight back and he knows it.

"Fine. You want to know? Really?" His eyes are burning.

She nods.

"I relive it every night," he continues. "Shooting Fury, killing all those agents, taking down the helicarrier, Phil…dying. All because of me."

She releases her grip. "I know that has to be hard, but that wasn't you, Clint. That was Loki. It wasn't your fault."

She is stunned into stillness when Clint swings a punch toward her cheek. She comes back to her senses with just enough time to catch his fist before it lands.

She knows he's drunk. She knows he's probably mentally unstable, apparently suffering from some form of PTSD. But she's still furious with him. And if she's being honest with herself, she's hurt. This wasn't like sparring. He wanted to cause real pain. She could see it in his eyes. She presses her nails into his fist, glaring at him.

"If that's how you're going to repay me," she says, voice hard as stone.

Clint wilts under her gaze. "Just stop trying to help," he mutters.

She releases his hand. "Why?"

"It doesn't work."

How did I miss this?, she wonders. He has pulled further into himself than she had ever imagined. He's given up. Completely. It is unacceptable.

"You think you can't be saved, Clint," she says. "And you couldn't be more wrong."


Natasha marches into the Triskelion. Her heels click sharply against the floor. Every person she passes moves out of her way. She ignores them.

She walks straight into Fury's office. She has no appointment, and a barely qualifying security clearance. She is breaching several security protocols. She doesn't care.

She moves to stand by the Director's desk.

Fury casually looks up.

"Good morning, Romanoff."

"Good morning," she replies, handing him the file she had been carrying.

He takes it and gestures for her to sit. She complies.

"You broke through eight security protocols just to hand me Barton's file? Seems a moot point to me."

"This is my personal file on Agent Barton," Natasha explains, all business. "It includes first-hand accounts of his behavior over the past few months, and also sworn statements from other members of the Initiative."

Fury opens the file, flipping through the pages. "So you're concerned."

"His behavior has been erratic and unpredictable. He is taking unnecessary risks."

"Your point?"

"You wanted to protect him from scrutiny after the Battle of New York, especially within SHIELD. But he is not functional. In light of the most recent…incident," Natasha says carefully, "I am recommending Barton be compelled to go through treatment for his mental condition."

Fury studies her for a moment. His eye casts a penetrating gaze. She doesn't budge, or breathe, or blink. He finally speaks after several long moments:

"Alright, then. You've convinced me."