Warnings: language, drug use, attempted suicide. Things get pretty ugly.

I've never gone through amphetamine withdrawal. Though I did research, everything in this chapter is just my over-dramatized interpretation.

Thanks to my beta, irite, for dissuading me from sending this chapter to the recycle bin. It was a close call!

I do not own the Avengers.


Clint slept for almost sixteen hours and when he awoke, the process of rediscovering body parts and reacquainting himself with reality was slow and disorganized.

When he'd remembered how to use his limbs, he blindly reached his hand out towards the bottle he knew he usually kept on the table next to his bed.

But there was nothing there.

Against his better judgment, he cracked his eyes open. There was a sunbeam slicing through the gap in the curtains on the west-facing window, and it assaulted his eyes. He clenched them shut again with a pained hiss.

Slowly, he tried again, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light in the room.

He was momentarily surprised to find himself in his room at Stark Tower, but that faded quickly as the memories from the previous night washed over him. With the memories came emotions: shame, self-disgust, and the beginning feather-light touches of anxiety.

With a growl at his own uselessness, Clint heaved himself out of bed.

That endeavor ended faster than it had begun, though, as he felt suddenly faint and collapsed backwards onto the bed. Not surprising, Barton, he thought. You're lucky that's all that's wrong with you.

Careful reflection, though, revealed that it wasn't. The headache that had become his near-constant companion throbbed and pulsed, white-hot behind his eyes. He was about ready to eat his own arm, he was so hungry.

And he was...really, really...pissed off, he realized, with some surprise.

The door opened behind him, and he turned with a snarled, "Get the fuck out!"

Natasha, though she looked a bit surprised, ignored him. Carefully, she crossed the room, and set the tray she was carrying on the bed. It contained, he noted wryly, no Lucky Charms. Instead, she'd opted for "bland" and had gone with soup and crackers. And...water. Well, even that shit looked amazing.

With much gusto and few manners (he didn't even bother with a 'thank you'), he tucked in. He was finished within five minutes. And he was still ravenous.

He got up, intending to head to the kitchen for something else. But Natasha blocked his way. "What the hell, Tasha, move," he said tersely.

"Fuck that. You eat more, you're going to puke. Again. Sit down."

But he didn't feel like playing nice. He reached out to shove her out of his way.

Natasha, with little effort, knocked him flat on his ass. With a raised eyebrow, she said, "You could have just sat in a chair, but this works, too. I guess."

Bewildered at his sudden repositioning, he stayed on the floor.

From her pocket, Natasha pulled out four or five pills. His pills. What the fuck was she doing with his pills? Where had she gotten them? Had she gone through his stuff? Of course she had, it was practically a law that you couldn't trust drug addicts. But did she have to stand there, dangling them in front of his face? Did she want him to sit up and beg like a fucking dog? What the fuck?

Rage churned in his midsection.

Oblivious to (or ignoring) his rising emotions, Natasha said, calmly, "How many of these do you usually take at a time, Clint?"

"What?" he snapped.

"How many of these do you take at a time? One? Two? Ten?"

Avoiding her eyes, he muttered something.

"What was that?" Natasha asked.

Glaring at her, now, with narrowed eyes, he said more clearly, "Four."

She nodded, and placed all but two of the pills back in her pocket. She held the pills out to Clint.

He didn't take them. "You condoning drug use now, Tasha?" he said, smirking to hide his sudden, visceral urge to strangle her. When had she become a fucking pharmacist?

"No, dumbass, I'm condoning you being able to function instead of writhing in bed, wishing you were dead," she spat back at him.

Well, that was fair. He stood, and took the offered pills, swallowing them with water. Immediately, he felt better. The rage that had been building up inside him vanished, leaving him weak in the knees.

"Sorry, Tasha," he said quietly. Christ, he'd been saying that a lot, lately. He knew she was trying to help. Fuck, he'd asked her to help. Being an asshole wasn't productive. He knew that.

She sighed. "It's okay. Look, you need to be distracted. And you need to get out of this room. Why don't you shower?" She paused. "Stark wants to talk to you, and we have some things to discuss, too. Like the vacation you're taking from work."

That was news to him. "Vacation?"

"Just shower, Barton. I'll explain it after."


Tony and Natasha had spent most of the morning researching amphetamine withdrawal. They were able to get a pretty good idea of what they could expect.

"Anxiety, mood swings, insomnia, paranoia, hallucinations? Jesus Fucking Christ!" Tony exclaimed. "Your boyfriend picked a stellar drug, Romanoff."

Natasha rolled her eyes. Tony continued, "And what about the Valium?"

"What about it?"

"Is he going to go into withdrawal from that, too? 'Cause that's got its own fucking problems."

She considered. "I don't think so. As far as I could tell, he was only taking it a couple of times a week to sleep. He could, though. I don't know. We haven't really talked about it." After a moment, she added, "I think our main focus should be the amphetamines."

Tony nodded. "Which is going to be pretty fucking awful on its own."

Natasha walked over to where she'd hung her jacket, and pulled out the pill bottles she'd stashed there earlier. "Well, we can wean him off. It doesn't have to be cold turkey. That should help, at least a little."

Tony looked unsure, but said, "If you think so."

"I do." She wasn't going to make Clint suffer more than he had to. Even if a tiny part of her thought he deserved it. Okay, maybe even a little more than a tiny part.

"I think," Tony said, slowly, "We should get Bruce in on this. And we're going to have to tell Steve, too."

"What? Why?"

"Come on, Romanoff. If Barton's going to stay here for more than a day or two, Steve is going to notice something's up with him. Bruce already knows, and he's a fucking genius, so he'll probably be able to help. It's what geniuses do."

Natasha didn't really approve, but said, "Whatever. I need to call SHIELD. Tell them Clint's going on vacation or something. They're going to wonder where the fuck he is. Where the fuck we both are, actually."

As it turned out, arranging a two-week vacation from SHIELD was easier than Natasha had imagined it would be. The only thing SHIELD was really working on at the moment was Thompson, and that was all lab work for now.

"Sure, Romanoff," Fury had said, his voice oozing sarcasm. "You take Barton and go to whatever romantic little corner of the world you've picked out. Don't get into any fucking trouble and don't cause a fucking international incident like you did last time you went on vacation."

Why did everyone think she and Barton were sleeping together? Whatever. As long as it worked, she wasn't going to correct him.

The pair continued their research, huddled over Tony's laptop in the kitchen, for the rest of the day. Bruce and Steve wandered through occasionally, shooting them odd looks, but they didn't say anything.

It was just before 8:00 PM when JARVIS announced, "Mr. Barton has awakened."

"I'll get Bruce and Steve," Tony said, getting to his feet.

Natasha nodded, and watched him leave. Then, she armed herself with the blandest, easiest to digest dinner she could find. If this was anything like last time, Clint was going to be starving.

When she emerged from Clint's room ten minutes later, having sent him to shower, Tony, Steve, and Bruce were gathered around the island in the kitchen. They were each engaged in what looked like an intense staring contest with the counter top.

"What have you told them?" Natasha asked Tony.

"Nothing. Thought I'd wait for you."

Well, wasn't that considerate. Not.

"Okay," she said. "Here's the deal." And then she hesitated, because damn, wasn't this awkward?

"Clint and I are going to be staying here for awhile. Two weeks, at least." She paused again.

Bruce already looked like he knew where this was going. Steve, for his part, looked concerned, if only because of the artless, halting way Natasha was delivering her speech.

Tony was shooting Natasha a look that clearly said, 'What's your problem?' She'd never been one to mince words, and it was pretty fucking inconvenient for her to start now.

"What Romanoff is trying to say," Tony said, in the flippant way he adopted whenever he needed to say something hard, "is that Barton's gone and gotten himself addicted to drugs, and now he's trying to quit. And it's going to be pretty fucking ugly."

Natasha didn't know if she should be relieved that he'd gotten it out in the open, or should slap him for being tactless and blunt. She opted for a glare.

"Drugs?" Steve asked, slowly. "But Agent Barton wouldn't do that. He's not stupid."

"No, Rogers, he's not!" Natasha snapped. She didn't know how much Clint would want her to say, but her teammate was apparently operating under some pretty fucking stupid conceptions that she had to dispel, now. "After Loki...used him...he's afraid of losing control. Afraid of what he might do if he isn't always aware, doesn't always know exactly what he's doing. He's afraid of sleeping, Rogers, it terrifies him, and so he decided he wasn't going to anymore. That's not stupid, it's desperate."

"But-"

"No buts, Rogers," she cut him off. "If you're not going to be helpful, then you can stay the fuck out of this. Stark thought you needed to know what was going on. Now you do."

Steve made a move like he was going to stand, but instead just re-adjusted how he was sitting. "I didn't say I wouldn't help," he said, carefully. "I just...this is..."

"Hard," Bruce supplied.

"You're telling me," Clint said, from the doorway.


While he was in the shower, the headache that had momentarily faded sprung back into life. Some small, logical part of his mind was prattling on about the difference between physical and psychological dependence. How he'd felt better earlier just from seeing his pills, but how now his nerves were screaming that it just wasn't enough.

That part of his mind, he decided, could fuck right off.

With great resentment, he toweled off and dressed himself. Well, as much as sweats and a t-shirt could be considered "dressed." He tried to ignore the pain in his head, but it was really fucking annoying, and he was starting to notice that it seemed to be creeping down his neck and into his shoulders. Perfect.

He left his room, heading stiffly towards the kitchen. He stopped outside the door, listening to the conversation occurring within. Great, they were talking about him. Well, that sounded like a good time. He thought he'd join in.

Steve said, "I just...this is..."

Bruce finished for him. "Hard."

"You're telling me," Clint said, stepping into the doorway.

To their credit, none of them jumped or looked particularly surprised. Tony just greeted him with a lazy, "Morning, Barton. Well. Evening, Barton."

Clint glared.

"Why don't you sit down?" Steve asked, offering his own seat.

"Think I'm going to pass, thanks," Clint said. He stalked through the kitchen.

"Wait, Clint," Natasha said. "We need to talk."

"Looks like you've got that under control without me!" he called, over his shoulder. A moment later, the TV blared to life, rather louder than it probably needed to be.

"He doesn't seem...so bad," Bruce said, quietly.

"I...We're trying to wean him off slowly," Natasha said.

"Wait," Steve interrupted. "He's still using drugs?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, Rogers. Fewer. Stopping altogether would be awful. It's probably going to be awful anyway."

Clearly, Steve didn't approve. Natasha tried to cut him some slack, what with his 1940s moral compass, but she couldn't resist adding, "Remember, if you're not helpful, you're out."

He tried to wrap his head around this, and then sighed. "I'm in. Okay? I'm in."


As soon as Clint sat down in front of the television, he began to come undone.

It was a slow process, though. It took most of the night.

At first, it was hard to think around the pain in his head. And shoulders. And arms. He knew that if he could just have one or two more pills, he would feel better. Maybe he could bargain with Natasha, explain how much this fucking hurt, and she'd see things his way. One more pill wasn't too much to ask. It was still cutting down. Just one more.

The look she had given him when he asked had just about killed him.

"No, Clint. Half life of amphetamine is ten hours. I'll give it to you then."

He had thrown himself back into his chair, furious. At her. At himself.

He remained there, largely unmoving, for hours.

Until, unbidden, the thought What if you fall asleep, Barton slid oily and insidiously across his mind.

Oh God. What if?

Don't be ridiculous, he thought, unaware he was engaging in an argument with himself. You just woke up, and you're still on drugs, dumbass. Yeah, it's less but you're still on fucking speed.

It's not enough. You know that. He began to nervously tap his foot. It was true, it wasn't enough. His current state of misery attested to that.

I'm not tired. It's fine.

You're not tired, yet. You will be. Then what?

That was a good question. Tasha had said ten hours. That was a long time. Only eight hours now, though. Yeah, that was a lot fucking better.

His nervous tapping became more pronounced, and he began to fidget.

More time passed. Clint's anxiety continued to climb, along with the aches in his head and muscles. He stood, and went to the kitchen for a drink. He returned and sat down. And noticed Steve was staring at him.

Steve had decided to watch television with Clint, feeling something akin to guilt about his earlier words. Bruce had dragged Tony downstairs to go through some boxes from SHIELD. Natasha, exhausted, had called it a night, after she made Steve swear to come get her in exactly nine hours OR if anything happened and he needed her. So he sat, ostensibly watching television, actually watching Clint.

What the fuck is he staring at? Clint wondered.

He thinks you're pathetic, he answered himself.

That's because I am pathetic.

And dangerous, his mind supplied. He knows you'll fucking kill them if you get the chance.

That's not true, he thought.

Like you even know what you would do, if you gave yourself the chance. Monster.

His anxiety spiked. He jumped to his feet. "I need some air," he said.

Steve knew he couldn't let the marksman go alone. "Want to go downstairs?"

Clint considered. No, that's not what he needed. He needed... "The roof. I want to go to the roof."

Steve shrugged. "Sure. Let me grab my shoes."

He doesn't trust you, Barton, Clint thought. He thinks you need to be watched. He thinks you're going to kill him.

That didn't even make sense. Clint shook his head, trying to clear it. Out loud he said, "Yeah, sure, meet you up there."

He took the elevator as high as it could go, then climbed the remaining stairs two and three at a time. He burst into the cool night air and breathed a sigh.

He headed over to his favorite perch, at the northeastern corner of the building.

Behind him, the door to the roof opened, and Steve stepped outside. He kept his distance, though, allowing Clint some space.

Doesn't want to get too close, Clint thought. That's smart. He knows what you are. Pathetic. Worthless. Dangerous...

The anxiety from which he'd been trying to escape rushed back into him so suddenly it took his breath away.

Heart pounding, he tried to get control of his breathing, to no avail.

Wow, Barton, this is great. Just think, you can spend the rest of your life this way. Scared. Pathetic. You're pathetic, you know, and you always will be, nothing's ever going to change. No one will ever trust you again, not really. You can't do your job. You can't even sleep without freaking the fuck out. Natasha hates you, and she should since you're so weak and you tried to kill her.

True, it was all true. God, what the fuck was he supposed to do?

He hadn't even noticed that he'd begun pacing back and forth, quickly, frantically. Steve did, though, and began slowly making his way over from the opposite side of the roof. Even from a distance, in the semi-dark, he could see that Clint didn't look good.

Suddenly, Clint stopped. The solution to the problem—oh, it was so obvious—had crashed over him, freezing him in place.

There's something you can do, Barton. Remove the danger. They'll all be safer. It'll be better. Everything will be better.

End it.

Jump.


When Clint stopped pacing, Steve had slowed his approach. But then, Clint had turned abruptly and pulled himself up onto the ledge of the roof.

That wasn't good.

Steve broke into a run.

Clint wasn't too steady on his feet, and getting onto the ledge seemed to take a lot out of him. He sat, gasping, one leg on either side, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. He swung his other leg over, so that he was sitting fully on the ledge. He swayed slightly, back and forth.

Steve, panicked and not caring too much about being gentle at the moment, grabbed the back of Clint's t-shirt and yanked him backwards as hard as he could. Clint flew into his chest, knocking them both over. They rolled.

Clint, surprised, took a swing at him, but Steve dodged it easily. Clint wasn't in top form right now, and Steve was a super solider. They rolled again, and Steve pinned Clint down on his stomach, with his arms behind him.

Clint went limp.

"What are you doing!" Steve yelled, terror and adrenaline raising his voice by almost an octave.

Clint struggled to roll over, but Steve held him down. He had no intention of letting the assassin move.

"I...can't...breathe," Clint choked out after a moment.

Steve rolled off him, and Clint sat up. Steve was alarmed to see that it didn't alleviate his breathing difficulties.

He reached out a hand and awkwardly placed it on Clint's shoulder, attempting to comfort him, or maybe just reassure himself that the other man was here.

But Clint jerked away. "Don't touch me!" he barked. He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his head on his folded arms. He closed his eyes with a sigh. Steve could see he was trembling, his muscles taut and strained.

"Fuck," Clint muttered, a moment later, massaging his aching head with an unsteady hand.

With his eyes fixed firmly on Clint, ready to tackle him again if he had to, Steve pulled out his cell phone.

He figured Natasha would classify this as "something happening," and he definitely needed her.


Thanks to everyone who's reading and leaving feedback.

Please review. They are beacons of hope as I wearily march the empty, gray road that is my life.