Warning: language, very brief drug use.

I do not own the Avengers.

You should all thank my beta, irite, without whom this whole chapter would be comprised of commas and the word "thought."


The door was locked but that was only a minor inconvenience. Natasha picked the lock in under a minute, marveling that the apartment had such shoddy hardware. She supposed it proved that even SHIELD wasn't immune from cuts in government spending.

Clint's apartment was dark, the only light coming from the streetlights outside. She moved through the shadows silently, knowing this space almost as well as she knew her own.

Well, it didn't hurt that all of the SHIELD apartments had exactly the same layout.

She made her way through the kitchen and living room, back into the bedroom.

In the dim light, she could see that Clint was lying on his back on top of the rumpled blankets, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. But for a slight trembling in his hands and forearms, he was completely still. The smell of sweat and vomit hung thick in the air.

Natasha lingered in the doorway, uncertain of how to proceed. She settled for a quiet, "Clint."

He didn't immediately acknowledge her. Then, slowly, he turned his head. The lights outside reflected against the streaks of sweat (or tears?) on his face, and the pair locked eyes.

"I can't do this, Tasha," Clint said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

As much as she wanted to help him, there was something she had to know first. "Are you high?" Natasha asked bluntly.

He gave a bark of mirthless laughter. "Nope. This is all me."

Somehow, that was worse. She sighed. This was a fine mess they'd gotten into.

Slowly, he sat up. When he unclenched his fist, she saw he was holding a pair of blue pills. "Not that it wasn't a close call, though," he said, self-deprecation almost masking the self-loathing dripping from his words.

Natasha moved into the room and sat at the foot of the bed. Gently, she took Clint's hand and, meeting no resistance, removed the pills. She slipped them into her pocket. Out of sight, out of mind, she reasoned.

From the way his gaze followed the movement, she knew that probably wasn't actually true.

"Why did you call me, Clint?" she asked, in an attempt to distract him. "Not that I'm complaining. Fuck, I wish you'd called me months ago."

The corner of his mouth twitched up into something that was almost a smile, but it faded quickly. "I talked to Banner today. He found an 'issue' with my blood that he thought we needed to discuss."

Oh. That probably wasn't good. "What did he say?"

"Mostly the same thing you did. I'm an idiot, I need to be careful, I could die. He's not going to report me to SHIELD, though. I thought..."

She waited. After a moment, he continued, "I thought, there's no reason for him to lie for me. The least I could do was try a little, but fuck, Tasha, I can't do this. It's so pathetic, I'm pathetic, I know. I just...I can't..."

He was on the verge of breaking down again. Natasha decided it was time to take charge. "Get up, Barton. Shower. We're leaving."

"...What?"

"We're not staying here. It smells like puke and there's only one bed. I'm not sleeping on a couch. So go shower. I'll pack."

Dazed, he complied.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she was on her feet. She headed back to the kitchen, where she'd seen Clint's bag sitting on the table. She removed both the pill bottles and walked over to the garbage can, intending to toss them out. She had wanted to do this before, but, respecting Clint's autonomy, had refrained. By calling her, though, and asking for her help (albeit implicitly...he'd never actually said the words, but calling someone at 2:00 AM in the midst of a panic attack was kind of hard to misread) he had indicated that he was ready to hand over his control. At least for a while.

She tossed the bottles into the garbage, but hesitated. And then, with great reluctance, she removed them. As much as she hated it, she suspected that they might need them. She didn't know much about drug withdrawal, but she did know that quitting cold turkey could be disastrous. She washed the bottles off in the sink and placed them in her jacket pocket.

Then, she returned to his bedroom and began throwing clothes into a bag. She was almost done when Clint emerged from the bathroom, clad only in a towel. He grabbed a handful of clothing (did he own anything but jeans and black t-shirts?), and returned to the bathroom. He exited a moment later, this time dressed, looking both rumpled and slightly bewildered.

Natasha figured clothing was all he'd really need where he was going. She zipped up the bag and tossed it at Clint who, purely out of reflex, managed to catch it. He slung the strap over his shoulder. Natasha led him out to her car, and he followed silently, almost placidly.

She hoped Stark didn't mind them coming over.


After Clint had left, Bruce's day had gotten progressively worse. This was impressive because he believed that confronting one of your friends about his drug abuse should never be the highlight of your day.

Bruce had determined that there were no microscopic life forms present in Thompson's blood, which was good. But then, some guys from SHIELD had come by with what seemed like a thousand boxes of stuff from the scene of the spill. Which they left haphazardly lying around everywhere.

Shortly after banging his shin on a stupidly placed box for the ninth time, Bruce thought it might be time for a break before he smashed something. He decided it was time for lunch.

Once in the Avengers' living quarters, he headed straight for the fridge. Unless Steve had gotten to it first, he knew there was some pizza left from last night.

On his way there, he'd barely glanced at Tony, who was sitting at the table consuming an obscene amount of espresso while reading the paper.

When he turned around, though, he nearly dropped his leftover pizza in shock.

"Hey, Bruce," Tony greeted him, as if half of his face wasn't covered in a massive bruise.

He was about to ask Tony what happened, but then he remembered that Clint had said the pair had a "run-in." So, instead, he just said, "Huh," and took a thoughtful bite of pizza.

"Really, Bruce? That's all you've got to say? And I thought you cared!" Tony's flair for the dramatic could not, apparently, be contained.

Bruce chewed slowly, and swallowed. "I talked to Barton today."

"Ah." Well, Tony thought, that explains it.

Bruce took another bite, gesturing at Tony's face, "Has Steve seen that yet?"

Tony smirked. "Yeah, he was just in here. Called me down from my beauty sleep to ramble on about some mission he had in Canada, like I should care. I just told him something exploded in my face. I was kind of offended by how quickly he believed it."

Bruce wisely chose not to comment on that. After a beat, Tony continued, "So, did he tell you...?"

"That he pummeled you? No. He said you had a 'run-in.' He's got a talent for understatement, I guess." Bruce paused, then asked, "What happened to his hands?"

"He took out a shelf of Pyrex. It was..." Tony remembered Clint's rage, his manic laughter, his blank stare as he laid on a bed of glass, drawing pictures in blood and water. "Bad," he finished, lamely.

Bruce watched the range of emotions that flickered over Tony's face, and decided not to press too much—if he wanted details, he supposed he could always pull out the security footage. Instead, he said, "I had to run a toxicology screening on him because he was exposed to an unknown contaminant. He tested positive for drugs."

"Yeah, he would have," Tony said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "Amphetamines, according to Romanoff. And probably Valium, since I watched him take that." Tony watched Bruce chew for a moment. When he'd swallowed, Tony asked, "Are you going to tell Fury?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. I...wanted to. Doing his job with impaired judgment is too risky. But I don't know that telling SHIELD would help him, you know?" He paused, before adding, "I don't know what would."

Tony had some suggestions. Most of which involved smacking Barton upside the head with varying levels of force. He didn't imagine Bruce would agree with him, though, so he said nothing.

Bruce finished his pizza. "Well, I should head back downstairs. I've got something like fifteen boxes of 'evidence' to go through, thanks to SHIELD. You should come down later. You know," he said, eyeing the billionaire's coffee and newspaper, "if you're not too busy."

"Sure, Bruce, I'll get right on that," Tony said, clearly without an intention of doing so. Bruce rolled his eyes, but left the billionaire to his caffeine.

Back in the lab, he'd discovered that at least one box contained materials that should have been refrigerated six hours ago and had now become unusable. Another box was leaking some unknown fluid onto the floor. Yet another box contained rats. Live, potentially contaminated rats. Rats that might burst into flame or explode.

Bruce felt a headache coming on.


The drive to Stark Tower was a quiet one. Natasha hadn't actually said where they were going, and Clint was seized with an irrational fear that she was going to dump him at some rehab facility, or worse. He knew it was crazy—Tasha wouldn't do that to you, Barton—but his mind was strained from panic and sleep deprivation. Rational thought just wasn't happening.

He didn't relax until she was parked in the Tower's underground parking garage.

They got out of the car, and Clint grabbed his bag from the back seat. Natasha swiped her key card at the elevator, and pressed the button for the Avengers' living quarters.

"Tasha?" Clint said, quietly, about 15 floors into their ascent.

"Yeah?"

"Why are we here?"

She shrugged. "My room's right next to yours. There's no vomit on the floor. JARVIS can monitor your vitals if—" She cut herself off, glancing quickly at Clint.

His face was carefully blank when he said, "When I start going through withdrawal."

When, he had said, not if. She wondered if it had already started. "Yeah," she replied, with a small nod.

He leaned against the back wall of the elevator, and closed his eyes. "Tasha," he breathed, after a moment, "I'm so tired."

She sighed. "I know, Clint."

She didn't, though, he thought. Not really.

The elevator stopped and opened with a quiet 'ding!' Natasha was glad to see that the whole floor was blessedly dark and quiet. Even Tony, the infamous insomniac, had retired. Or, more likely, he was 15 floors down, tinkering in one of the labs. Still, the pair met no one as they slipped into Clint's bedroom.

Clint tossed his bag indifferently into a corner, and stared apprehensively at the bed.

Fuck, he was tired.

Behind him, Natasha watched as he practically swayed on his feet. Exhaustion seemed to be hitting him hard. She knew he hadn't slept in the last twenty-four hours. No, wait. It was probably more like thirty-six hours. While she knew he'd grown accustomed to staying awake for days, that was with chemical intervention. If he was without it...

"Clint," she asked, "When was the last time you took anything?"

He considered for a moment, still staring at the bed with slightly unfocused eyes. "It was just before I saw Banner. So, maybe ten o'clock yesterday morning?"

She nodded. "And the last time you slept?"

That was easy. "The other night."

As she had suspected, then. That meant it had been just over 36 hours with no sleep, and eighteen hours with no drugs.

"Barton, you need to sleep."

Clint turned around suddenly, violently. "No shit, Romanoff, what the fuck do you think—"

His words were cut off when he saw the pair of blue pills she was offering him.

"What the fuck, Tasha?" he said, bluntly.

"Look, Clint, you need to sleep. Things are going to get...bad. Soon. You need to rest while you can."

Without warning, he slapped at her hand, sending the pills flying into the corners of the room. "Fuck that, Tasha, I need to stop being such a worthless piece of shit."

"And was that really a good start?" Natasha asked, remarkably calm. She reigned in her desire to walk out of the room and instead steeled herself for his next attack. She wasn't going to abandon him now, not after he'd decided to trust her with this.

But the attack never came. He sat down on the bed, resting his face in his hands. "Christ, I'm sorry. No, you're right. I'm just...not ready. For this. And I'm just so tired..."

Natasha retrieved the Valium and set it on the bedside table. "Then sleep, Clint. Tomorrow's going to be hell."

With a wry smile, he said, "That's really encouraging, Nat." But he scooped the pills into his hand and swallowed them dry, carefully avoiding her eyes as he did it.

She turned to leave, thinking that he might want some privacy.

But...

"Don't go," he whispered, almost too softly to hear. Almost like he didn't want her to hear but couldn't stop the words from escaping.

With a tiny, internal sigh, she started to settle into one of the chairs. Then, changing her mind, she climbed into the half of the king-sized bed that Clint wasn't occupying, lying on her side so that she was facing him.

"I told you I wasn't sleeping on a couch."


"Mr. Stark," JARVIS said, momentarily muting the music blaring in Tony's headphones, "Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanoff have entered the building. They are en route to the Avengers' quarters."

"Huh, that's odd," Tony replied. He checked the time. It was a bit after 3:00 AM. "What are they doing?"

"They have retired to Mr. Barton's bedroom, sir. Do you wish to speak with them?"

Well, yeah, Tony thought, I do. But, for once, he restrained himself. God only knew what they were up to. "No, that's okay. I'll get them in the morning. Let me know when either of them gets up."

"Certainly, sir."

Tony checked his watch again, debating. He decided that 3:11 AM was an early night, but decided to call it anyway. He headed upstairs to his penthouse.

Four and a half hours later, JARVIS awoke him, "Sir, Ms. Romanoff is awake and making coffee."

"Why shd'I'care?" he mumbled, barely conscious.

"You wished to speak with her last night, sir, or Mr. Barton."

Fuck, that was right. Tony gracelessly extracted himself from his bed and threw on the same clothes he'd been wearing the previous night. Anything happening before 9:00 AM was not worth showering for.

Still half-blind with sleep, Tony stumbled into the Avengers' quarters and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sucked down over half the cup before greeting Natasha with a "Good morning, beautiful."

For her part, she seemed kind of baffled as to why he was there. "Stark. You're up...early."

"Yeah," he said, more awake now. "I wanted to talk with you. Was gonna have JARVIS summon you when you got here last night, but he said you'd both gone into Barton's bedroom, and I didn't want to 'interrupt' anything."

Natasha reflected, for the thousandth time, that JARVIS could be really, really creepy. Occasionally useful, but almost always creepy. She rolled her eyes at Tony, and said dryly, "Yes, Stark, between his panic attacks and withdrawal symptoms, Clint and I had amazing, raucous, mind-blowing sex. It was fantastic."

"Wait," Tony said. "Withdrawal?"

She nodded. "He called me last night, when he was trying to sleep. He was panicking, and he called me instead of using. He's...trying."

Tony nodded. Natasha continued, "I brought him here. I don't know much about drug withdrawal, but I didn't want him to be alone. He trusted me, and I don't want to fuck this up."

Tony, despite the damage Clint had done to his face...and lab...felt the same way. The man clearly needed friends right now. Tony thought that maybe Clint had gotten fucked over worse than any of them by Loki's attack, and if he could help, then it was probably time he stepped up.

"If we're going to do this," Tony said, slowly, thinking, "We have some research to do."

Natasha shot him a grateful look. "Where should we start?"


Thanks to everyone who's reading and leaving feedback.

The next chapter is, I think, going to be quite the roller coaster ride. Hope you're all ready.

Please Review. They bring light to the otherwise impenetrable darkness of my meaningless existence.