Warnings: language, mention of drug use.

Please give me leeway with the science—everything I know, I learned from television and two semesters of organic chemistry.

I do not own the Avengers.


With some bitterness, Bruce wondered when, exactly, he had become a biologist.

As far as he could remember, he had gotten his PhD in physics. Sure, he'd done some work in biology—you can't work on a super soldier serum without biology, after all—and his research into his own condition necessitated that he spend a fair amount of time working in biology as well, but he still self-identified as a physicist, damn it!

He sighed and shook his head. It wasn't as if SHIELD didn't pay him generously for the work he did. He'd just appreciate it if they just didn't act like "science" was a generic catch-all, and would find a damn biologist to do the damn biology.

Although, Bruce had to concede, he was kind of an expert on being massively, albeit it accidentally, destructive. Maybe that was the unique qualification SHIELD was looking for in this case.

It was just after 9 AM. A courier had arrived about an hour ago with a package containing several vials of blood, a few tissue samples, and some files. The accompanying letter explained in detail how a chemical spill had affected some guy—Chris Thompson, age 29—and asked if Dr. Banner could please take a look at these samples and see if he could figure out "what the fuck is going on, since you're so fucking smart."

Bruce suspected that particular addition had been Fury's. At least he hoped so. He didn't think that SHIELD's scientists would be so egregiously rude.

He was rather alarmed to see that some of the samples were labeled as "Barton, Clint," and he dug through the accompanying files until he found a note explaining how agent Barton had been exposed to Thompson's blood. It was attached to the report from the doctor who had done a preliminary examination of Clint after he'd returned from Detroit.

Bruce set the report aside. He picked up the file on Thompson and began reading. He set that aside as well, after a few minutes, having determined that it was mostly useless.

He figured he was looking for a toxin of some kind, or a bacteria, or a virus, or...just about anything, because having your body fluids explode was a pretty fucking weird problem that shouldn't be able to occur at all, and so it could be anything.

The easiest thing to test for was toxins. Well, that was assuming that it was a known toxin, which it almost certainly wasn't, because there were no toxins known to cause Explosive Body Fluid Syndrome. But scientists should never skip over steps in the scientific method, Bruce reflected wryly. Doing so could be disastrous.

He set up some of Thompson's blood to check for toxins and run anything it found against the database. Then, deciding to save some time, he did Clint's, too. Trust Tony to have a lab set up with multiple gas chromatograph-mass spectrometers. Well, the billionaire had said it was "Candyland" here. He hadn't been lying.

Figuring that the samples would run for a few hours, at least, he decided to see if he could isolate a microbe from the blood.

Half an hour into setting up for that, the computer connected to one of the GC-MSs beeped, indicating that it had a result.

No way, Bruce thought. That was way too easy. He turned to investigate.

It was Clint's blood sample that was finished.

Bruce, now really intrigued, checked the results. Then checked them again. Then he dug around on the lab table, trying to find the report on Clint the doctor had sent over. Where the hell did I...ah, success! He flipped it open.

And was not surprised at all by what he was reading, given the information on the computer screen behind him.

"Heart rate...elevated. Blood pressure...elevated. Temperature...elevated," he read aloud to himself. Well, all of that made sense.

Since Clint had just tested positive for amphetamines. And...Valium?

Bruce thought that this was definitely a problem.


Dr. Banner had sounded a little strained on the phone, when he called Clint and told him that there was an issue with his blood work.

Clint wasn't stupid. He knew the "issue" was one of two things. Either he was dying from some kind of really fucking weird exploding condition, or Banner had caught on to his secret. Neither possibility was particularly good.

In fact, they were so terrible that he had packed a bag and was halfway to fleeing the city before reason caught up with him. If he was going to turn into some weird kind of human bomb, he figured it would be best if he knew. As for the other part...well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Right?

Dr. Banner was on the 75th floor of Stark Tower, carefully using a pipette to transfer minute amounts of liquid between two beakers. When Clint entered the lab, Bruce stopped what he was doing, removed his safety goggles, and gave him a very long look.

Uncomfortable, Clint said, "Have you, uh, had any luck with Thompson's...stuff?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes a bit, but when he answered, he was as friendly and mild-mannered as ever. "None at all. Well, I did determine that his DNA hasn't been altered."

"That's...good, right?" Clint said, almost stiffly.

"I think so. It'll be a few days until I know more. Longer, if I don't ever get the samples from the site." They lapsed into silence.

Bruce had been carefully observing Clint since he walked into the lab. His behavior didn't seem to be too...off. At least initially. But as the silence between them lengthened, Bruce saw how Clint began to fidget, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His pupils were slightly dilated, and a faint sheen of sweat was visible on his brow. Bruce could tell that he was definitely on something.

Clint, for his part, was becoming progressively more nervous. If Banner hadn't made any progress on Thompson's blood, then there was really only one reason he would have called Clint here. Clint considered making a run for it, fuck, his bag was still packed and in his car downstairs, he could be out of the city in half an hour...

"Fuck, Banner, just say it already," Clint growled, the words leaving his mouth before his brain knew he'd been planning on saying them.

"Say what, Barton?" Bruce continued watching him, the very definition of calm, his expression inscrutable.

"The 'issue' with my blood work. Say. It." Clint felt a spike of anxiety piercing through his chest, but pushed it down ruthlessly. You will not fucking panic right now, Barton.

Bruce saw the growing tension in the marksman's posture, in his jaw. He was wound tighter than his bowstring. Bruce decided it was time lay his cards on the table, before the other man snapped. "Your blood showed traces of amphetamines and diazepam, Clint." Calm, clinical. "Are you using?"

Clint thought that was pretty fucking stupid question (how else would the drugs get into his body?) but he appreciated Banner giving him the benefit of the doubt. He supposed in his line of work, it was possible that someone had drugged him, or something. Maybe. Or maybe he was part of some experimental government program, pilot-study sort of thing. Or, maybe...

"Barton?"

Clint realized he hadn't answered. He figured that he didn't have anything to lose by being honest. If anyone would understand about being completely fucked up, he thought it might be Banner. So he decided to just go for it. "Yeah."

"Yeah? Yeah, you're using?"

Another long silence. "Yeah."

Sure, Bruce had already known that. But it had been in the way that scientists "know" something before their tests have proven it conclusively. Now he knew for certain. And had no idea what to do.

He opted to continue his questioning, at least until he figured out a better game plan. "When did you start?"

"Couple of months ago, I guess."

"After...?" Bruce didn't need to be more specific.

"Yeah, after."

"Why?"

"I...started having panic attacks. When I tried to sleep. So..."

"You decided to stop sleeping." Neutral, non-judgmental. That was good. "And the Valium?"

"I needed to sleep sometimes. Apparently."

Bruce nodded. "I don't suppose it occurred to you to tell someone about the anxiety?"

Clint scoffed, "Yeah, that'd go over well. 'Hi, I'm Clint Barton. I'm the guy who once helped a psychopath try and take over the world. Now I'm afraid to sleep. Is there anything you can do about that?'"

Bruce felt that Clint was underestimating the kind of support that SHIELD would provide its employees, even one who had once (albeit unwillingly) assisted in an attempt to subjugate humanity. More importantly, though, "You could have told one of us."

Well, fuck, Clint thought. That hadn't even occurred to him.

Bruce saw that he was flummoxed, and decided to stop pushing in that direction. Instead, he asked, "Does anyone know?"

Clint nodded. "Tasha. Stark."

"Tony knows?" That was unexpected.

"Yeah. The night before last...we had a run-in." Clint held up his hands, which Bruce now noticed were covered in cuts, some of which looked quite bad.

Still, despite the worry that was now trying to seep out of his pores and manifest as something corporeal, he maintained his composure (one of the benefits of all those years of yoga and breathing exercises) and said only, "Oh?"

"Yeah..."

Bruce made a note to himself to figure out what kind of "run in" resulted in that many lacerations. In the meantime... "Barton, I don't know what to do with this."

Clint appreciated his blunt honesty.

Bruce went on, "There's no real reason for me to include this in my report to SHIELD, since it has nothing to do with whatever's wrong with this Thompson guy. But...part of me wants to anyway. I can't believe you'd be so stupid, to go on missions stoned. You do dangerous work and...you're not superhuman. One stray bullet, one wrong move, and you're done."

Clint had heard most of this before. Still, he felt obliged to clarify. "I don't go on missions stoned, Banner."

"Really? Because amphetamines only stay in your blood for about twelve hours. That blood was drawn around three o'clock this morning. Which means you were using on or after three o'clock yesterday afternoon. Before your mission."

"Yeah, but I wasn't stoned, I just..."

"You just weren't sober."

Well, when he put it like that, Clint felt like a shithead.

After a moment, Bruce said, "Look, Barton. Clint. I'm not going to tell SHIELD. I'm not really sure it's the right thing to do, but I won't. Just...for God's sake, you can't keep going out on missions like that. You need to stop. And...it's going to be really hard, when you do."

Clint didn't want to think about that. He didn't need to. Withdrawal wasn't the issue. Sleeping was. Every night. Losing control of his body for hours at a time. The thought sent a wave of anxiety straight through his midsection. It jarred him into motion. He stood up abruptly, saying, "Thanks for your discretion, Dr. Banner, but I'm fine. Really." He turned towards the door.

"Wait, Barton," Bruce said. Clint paused. "You don't have to talk to some SHIELD shrink. God knows I'd probably rather die than go through that. But you need to talk to someone, and you need to stop using. Seriously. No one wants you to end up dead."

"Thanks, Banner," Clint said, voice flat. "I'll take that into consideration."

As he left, Bruce was left wondering if he'd had any kind of impact at all.


Surprisingly, Bruce had actually gotten through to Clint more than either of them realized.

Clint managed to get through most of a whole day of work after his early-ish morning meeting with the physicist. Most of it was spent getting as much information out of Thompson as possible about what the fuck, exactly, had happened to him. The SHIELD team that Fury had sent in had finished sampling the area, and had sent their data and materials to Dr. Banner. Clint hoped Banner would find it useful—most of what the forensics geek had been saying to him went way over his head.

That had kept him occupied until after eight o'clock. After that, he spent an hour carefully dodging Natasha, who was looking for him while trying very hard to look like she wasn't—a lesser person probably wouldn't have noticed. He returned to his crappy on-site standard-issue SHIELD apartment a bit after 9:30, and spent two hours watching the embarrassing reality programming that Stark had gotten him addicted to.

At midnight, he found himself, almost unexpectedly, lying in bed. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. But even closing his eyes caused his heart rate to pick up. His palms began to sweat. Still, he forced his eyes to stay closed, forced his breathing to stay even.

Exhausted, he dozed off.

And woke, less than five minutes later, sitting straight up with a gasp. Leaning over the side of the bed, he retched. Nothing came up but stomach acid; he hadn't eaten since his ill-fated Lucky Charms the previous morning.

"This is pathetic, Barton," he hissed aloud, when he'd caught his breath. "Man the fuck up already."

But telling himself how weak he was, how much of a failure he'd become, did nothing to quell the trembling in his hands.

So he got out of bed and wandered to the kitchen, where he'd dropped his bag when he'd gotten home. He opened it and pulled out bottle #2. He shook out a pair of the blue pills. He pocketed them and went back to his bedroom, and sat on the edge of his bed.

He pulled the pills out of his pocket, and stared at them.

Then set them down on the nightstand, with a frustrated sigh.

He laid back down. The cycle repeated. He lapsed into sleep, and jolted awake. Each awakening was the same: breathless, panicked, terrifying.

After the fourth round (how was it only two o'clock? Christ, it felt like he'd been in bed for ages), Clint was done. Soaked in sweat, trembling, and choking on his own breath, he scooped the pills back into his hand.

But hesitated again. He clenched his fist around the diazepam, fingernails digging deeply into his palms.

He placed the pills on the bed next to him.

And, with shaking hands, picked up his cell phone instead.


Her cell phone display said, "Barton," and Natasha wondered what that asshole could possibly want at two o'clock in the morning.

"What?" she answered testily, foregoing all social niceties. It was late, and he'd been dodging her. Oh, and he was a drug addict. He didn't get social niceties.

Silence.

"Barton, what the fuck?"

Still nothing.

Then, "...Tasha." A shuddering breath. A...sob?

Okay, now she was worried. God, fuck him. "Clint, are you okay?"

Silence, stretching into eternity. Broken, after an age, by a quiet, agonized, "No."

She sighed. "Hang on, Barton. I'll be there in a few."

So much for not caring.


I really struggled with this chapter, so I hope it was okay.

Please review! Otherwise, I float, adrift, in a sea of abject uncertainty and self-doubt.

Finally: if anyone's looking for a beta reader, and you think I'd be a good fit, hit me up.