Warnings: language, a little bit of blood.

Thanks to irite for the idea that inspired Clint and Steve's little chat, and for helping me with the ending!

I do not own the Avengers.


Tony's shift now over, Clint and Natasha watched as he headed towards the elevator, presumably en route to bed.

When the doors had closed behind him, Natasha turned and gave Clint a quick once-over. He looked tired—exhausted, actually, the dark rings under his eyes standing out sharply under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. His eyes themselves were fever-bright and almost entirely the black of his pupil, and a faint sheen of sweat coated his brow.

Never one to mince words, Natasha stated flatly, "You look like hell, Barton."

He glared at her. Then, with a small shake of his head, he brushed past her into the lounge. He threw himself into what he was coming to call "his" spot on the couch, and flipped the TV on.

Well, all right then. That was fine. Kind of rude, but fine.

Natasha let him sit there for exactly thirty-four minutes. She perched on a barstool in the kitchen, positioned so that she could clearly see into the living room (she wasn't taking any chances), and took the time to have breakfast and catch up on the news. Then, when she had finished her coffee and whole-wheat bagel (passing on the Lucky Charms—that shit could kill you), she walked back into the living room and stood directly in front of the television.

He was not actually watching whatever was on the screen, as evinced by his complete lack of reaction to having his view suddenly blocked.

"Clint?"

He jumped then, startled, eyes flying up to meet hers. "What?"

She was seized suddenly with the almost irresistible urge to scream, cry, or break something. That Clint Barton had not even noticed her approach, had not even been aware of her presence until she was practically sitting in his lap, was truly telling. Disheartening, maybe, or horrifying. 'Hawkeye' was never surprised. His immense skill set, his years of training, guaranteed it.

Natasha knew it was the damn drugs, that once he was clean he'd be back to normal (at least, she hoped to God that was the case), but she was still filled suddenly with rage at that sonofabitch demigod who had taken so much from them. Who was still fucking with them, still taking from them, months after he was gone.

Wherever that bastard was, she hoped he was suffering.

Pushing the rising tide of emotion back down (now's not the time, Romanoff), she ordered him, "Get up, Barton. You need to shower. And shave."

"Why?"

"The usual reasons. For one, you're starting to reek."

"What? Bullshit, it's only been...eleven hours since I showered—"

"And you've been sweating the whole time," she cut him off.

He had to concede that point.

Continuing as if he hadn't interrupted, she went on, "Second, the unshaven-hobo look doesn't work for you. And finally, I'm not going out in public with you looking like that."

Now he seemed a little more animated, his indifference morphing into faintly hostile resentment. Natasha didn't know if that was an improvement.

"In public?" he said, disbelieving. "I can't go out, Tasha-"

"Why not? You're on 'vacation', you're not a prisoner here. You need to be distracted. Unless you don't feel up to it?" she added. Because, upon closer inspection, he really did not look well. Maybe letting him rest wouldn't be such a bad idea, after all...

But with an unexpected amount of energy (though it perhaps shouldn't have been unexpected, she thought, not really), he stood. "I'm fine." Except for that, he thought as dizziness washed over him.

Natasha decided not to point out how weakly that particular lie came across when he was swaying in place on the verge of falling over.

Clint took a moment to regain his equilibrium. Then he huffed, "I'll be back." He headed towards his room.

Twelve steps later, in the middle of the kitchen, he became aware that Natasha was following him. He stopped.

"Where are you going?"

Sounding only a little bit like she thought he was an idiot (Am I imagining that?), she said, "I'm your shadow for the next four or five hours, Clint. Remember?"

Well, of course he fucking did. He hadn't turned into an idiot overnight. But, "I didn't realize that entailed following me into the shower."

Annoyingly calm and rational, she responded, "I'm not going to follow you into the shower." A pause. "I'll wait outside, of course."

He narrowed his eyes. "That's really not necessary. I'm not going to...do anything."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Clint, but I don't trust you right now."

He took it the wrong way.

"Yeah, I bet you fucking don't—" He cut himself off as Steve wandered into the room. The supersoldier cast a wary glance between the two assassins and looked momentarily like he was going to say something. Thinking better of it, apparently, he instead quickly grabbed enough food to feed a small army and hastily beat a path back out of the kitchen.

Clint and Natasha faced off in silence for a few more seconds. Then, Clint's shoulders slumped. He didn't think he was going to win this battle, and honestly he was too fucking sick and tired and sore to put forth any kind of effort to do so. "Fine. Whatever."

It was as humiliating as he had thought it would be. Natasha gave him what privacy she felt she could, as much as she was willing to hazard, and Clint appreciated it. She didn't complain when he stood under the spray for the better part of an hour, and she only checked on him once. Still, it didn't change the fact that the bathroom door was open, or that he knew she was sitting on the bed, carefully listening for the sounds of anything gone amiss.

He thought that maybe the slow death of his dignity might be the hardest part of all of this bear.

Although the angry pain pounding in his head begged to differ.

A bit before eight o'clock, Clint was in the passenger seat of Natasha's car, clean and shaved, sunglasses covering his over-sensitive eyes. He wished desperately that he were almost anywhere else.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Natasha asked him, "Anything you want to do?"

Of course there was. But he knew that wasn't going to happen for...exactly eight hours and four minutes. So instead he muttered, "Don't care. Just drive." He slumped bonelessly back against the seat, his fingertips tapping a steady rhythm against his thigh, clearly communicating an inelegant amalgamation of exhaustion and restless misery.

Natasha sighed and threw the car into gear.


The poor, underpaid lab intern (Jessica Starnes, age 20, got the job through her aunt. Had already decided that this line of work was definitely not for her) who processed Dr. Banner's completed work could not, for the life of her, figure out why some GC-MS printout with Agent Barton's name on it was shoved in with the summary of the Thompson case that Dr. Banner had created for Director Fury. It was the only such document in the file. It didn't even make sense for it to be there, since the director would have no idea what he was looking at.

Hell, she had no idea what she was looking at, and she was in her third year at NYU.

So, she spent almost half an hour debating with herself whether she should leave it there or try and figure out where it was actually supposed to go.

In the end, she figured that Dr. Banner was way smarter than she was. If he'd put that printout in there, that was probably where it belonged. She opted to leave the folder as it was. She tossed it in with the outgoing mail and promptly forgot about it.

Forty-five minutes later, the phone rang. Her boss grabbed it before she could, so she went back to washing glassware.

"Hey Jess!" Her boss (Dr. John Lucas, biochemist and long time SHIELD lab lackey) called after a few minutes. "Did you send a folder up to Fury's office?"

Trying not to panic (because no one wanted to be on Director Fury's radar, ever) she squeaked, "Um, yeah. From Dr. Banner. It said it was for the director!"

Dr. Lucas chuckled, appearing from behind the autoclave. "Don't worry, you didn't cause an international incident, and I don't even think he's going to have you arrested. There was just something strange in the file that he wants me to take a look at. Said he was sending it down. Could you wait for it and bring it to me when it gets here?"

Jessica nodded, relieved. "Sure."

Setting what seemed like it should have been a new record for speed in this bureaucracy, Fury's assistant appeared with the file in under five minutes.

Jessica was rather unsurprised to see that it contained the GC-MS printout.

She walked the folder over to Dr. Lucas, who flipped it open and quickly scanned the page. Then, he took his glasses out of his lab coat pocket and scanned it again. For several moments after that, he stared at it very intently.

"...I'll be right back," he announced finally, before turning abruptly and leaving the lab.

Halfway to the director's office, it occurred to him that he should have called—Fury was a busy man, the chances of him being in his office were pretty low.

Actually, the chances of him being in his office were zero, because there he was, ducking into a conference room.

"Director!" he called out. "I need a minute."

Fury raised his eyebrow. "Dr. Lucas. I'm about to begin a meeting..."

"This will only take a second. I looked at the document you sent down."

"...And?"

"It's a printout from a GC-MS. Er, a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer. They're used to separate and identify different components present in a sample. Of blood, or urine, or just about anything, really."

"And?" Fury asked again, much less patient this time.

Time to get to the point, apparently. "The sample Dr. Banner was running contained both amphetamine and diazepam."

Dr. Lucas had been expecting Fury to be shocked or dismayed, or to show any reaction at all. He was sadly disappointed. Instead, Fury asked, "The sample came from Agent Barton, correct?"

"I assume so, unless Banner's got some really esoteric labeling system."

"Right. So, you're saying that one of my agents is abusing illegal substances."

"Not necessarily," Dr. Lucas said. Scientists didn't like to jump to conclusions. "There's a number of other explanations. They could be prescriptions, or-"

"Cut the shit, Lucas."

Having worked around the director for so long, Dr. Lucas didn't take his profanity personally. Compared to some of the things the director had come out with, that was downright tame. Still, Lucas said, "Sorry, sir. Yes, there is a definite possibility that Agent Barton has been using drugs."

Fury nodded, brisk and efficient. "Thank you for your help. I think it goes without saying that you should mention this to no one."

That had seemed just a touch threatening. "Uh, sure. Of course, sir." Shaking his head, Dr. Lucas walked back towards the lab.

The director slipped into the conference room for his meeting.

It lasted until almost five o'clock.


Natasha and Clint drove around for the better part of four hours, first weaving through the city, and eventually heading towards the open country. The entire affair was conducted largely without speaking—every time Natasha tried to start a conversation, Clint had turned the radio up. It wasn't exactly subtle. Of course, after three seconds, he'd turn it down again, or fiddle with the air conditioning, the balance of the speakers, the level of the bass. The radio station. The direction the vents were facing. The windows. The angle his seat was reclining at.

It was really annoying.

But she persevered. Once he was out, he'd seemed reluctant to go back to the Tower at all, and though he was clearly uncomfortable (a fact spoken by the stiff set of his shoulders, the faint shaking in his hands as he rubbed at his eyes and forehead) he insisted that he was fine and that she should keep driving.

Now, though, she was heading back. And she'd be damned if she was going to concede total defeat and let him deflect her entirely. She waited for a moment where his nervous energy seemed to have been conquered briefly by crushing fatigue. Then, "Clint."

And her efforts were rewarded. Instead of leaning forward to adjust the radio to drown her out, he just turned his head so he was pointedly looking out the window.

Well, she could work with that.

"I think you should try to sleep tonight."

There was no reply, but his expression altered slightly, settling into something between irritation and 'you've-got-to-be-fucking-joking.'

"You need to try and get back into a regular sleep schedule," she continued, when it became clear he was not going to respond.

He ground his teeth together. Sure, it was easy for her to talk about things like "regular sleep schedules," when she could, you know, actually motherfucking sleep. No panic or terror. She was without the decimating certainty that the loss of control could only end in disaster. She was without the anger that was suffocating him-anger at his body for needing something so weak, at himself for being fucking crazy, at Loki for doing this to him.

No, sleep was, to Natasha, still something normal, something natural, something innate. For her, it had not been transformed into slow torture.

For him, though, it was not just a path that led to nightmares, but a nightmare itself.

So he thought if she uttered the phrase "regular sleep schedule" again, he might strangle her.

Ignorant of his inner conflict, she went on, "And I was thinking the best way to get back on a regular sleep schedule would be to cut down your afternoon dose to one pill instead of two."

When his fist slammed into the dashboard, he could not tell which of them was more surprised.

"Fuck," he muttered, pain radiating from his knuckles to his wrist. He slowly unclenched his hand, listening for the tell-tale crunch of broken bones. It was absent. But one of the healing cuts on his hand had reopened, and a small stream of blood ran down the back of his hand. Dazed, he watched as it wound a slowly curving path around his palm and began dripping down onto his leg.

"Christ, Barton," Natasha breathed, stunned by how fast his demeanor had changed, how fast he had acted. Watching him as closely as she could while still driving, she asked him, "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. How could he, without sounding completely insane?

Natasha could feel a headache of her own coming on. She made a mental note about the wisdom of talking about further reducing Clint's amphetamine intake. Apparently, it hadn't been the best idea she'd ever had.

A few minutes later, she was pulling into the underground parking garage at Stark Tower. The elevator ride back up to the Avengers' floor was silent.

Steve was sitting in the kitchen, working his way through a lunch of epic proportions. He nodded a greeting at the assassins, his mouth too full to talk.

"Rogers," Natasha greeted him. "You ready to take your shift?"

He swallowed. "What? Yeah, I guess?" He was a little surprised by the blunt way she had asked, as if Barton wasn't standing right there.

"Good." She stalked back to the elevator. She needed a break. And to re-adjust all of the settings in her car. Every. Single. One.

Steve and Clint both wondered what Clint had done to piss her off.

When she had disappeared around the corner, Steve gestured at the mountain of food surrounding him. "You want any of this?"

When in doubt, he thought, offering food is a pretty safe option.

Not needing another invitation, Clint grabbed a bag of chips and sat down across the table. He was about to reach in and grab and handful when he remembered that he'd been bleeding all over the fucking place just a few minutes before. Bloody chips sounded disgusting.

Although...maybe not as disgusting as they should have. He was fucking starving.

Nevertheless, he stood and walked to the sink.

"What happened to your hand?" Steve asked, observing how gingerly the marksman was flexing his fist under the running water.

Clint muttered something.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said 'I punched the dashboard.'" Clint repeated, his voice strained with either irritation or embarrassment.

Steve couldn't help it—he laughed.

He stopped quickly, though, when Clint spun around. Expecting some kind of violent outburst, Steve was surprised when, instead, Clint also began cracking up. "I know, what the fuck, right?" the marksman snickered, sounding only a little manic.

Although he was unable to completely suppress his smile, Steve was still concerned. He asked, "Why did you, uh..."

"Punch the dashboard?"

"Yeah."

"Tasha said 'regular sleep schedule.'" The manner in which he spoke indicated that he thought his statement made total sense.

It didn't, though. "Not sure I follow that," Steve remarked.

"Well, she was just so fucking nonchalant about it, like it wasn't a big fucking deal."

Steve still wasn't getting it. "Nonchalant about...what, exactly?"

"Sleep!" Clint exclaimed, his voice now taking on a more frenzied tone. "She just does it, so she doesn't get it. How fucking awful it is. It's normal, for her, and natural, and she thinks I should just get over it—"

Now that he was thinking about it, it occurred to Clint that Natasha had not actually indicated any such thing. God, he thought, My mind is a fucking mess, just making shit up now, great, let's just add another fucking item to the list of how I'm going crazy.

More immediately troubling than his continued descent into insanity, though, was that Captain Fucking America was sitting there, nodding sympathetically, like he had a fucking clue what this was like. The supersoldier was fucking perfect, the very definition of a goddamn hero, so where did he get off acting like he understood this shit?

"Fuck you, Rogers, what the fuck you do know?" Clint spat at him.

Steve thought that was a little rude, and completely uncalled for, even considering the extenuating circumstances. So it was with more aggression than he maybe would have liked that he replied, "You think you're the only person who's ever had trouble sleeping?"

Clint snorted "It's more than a little insomnia, Cap. And I doubt you've even wrestled with that. 'Supersoldiers' don't have those sorts of problems. They're reserved for us poor little human bastards."

Steve was floored by the apparent bitterness that Clint felt towards him. "So you think I'm...what, perfect?"

The cynical look the marksman gave him was infuriating. Almost as much as his next words. "Wait, you mean you're not?"

"Barton..." Steve stopped to take a deep breath. When he continued, he was more calm. "I lost consciousness once and didn't wake up for almost seventy years. After that, I never wanted to sleep again. Yeah, maybe I wasn't worried that I was going to go crazy and attack my friends." Clint glared at him, but Steve continued. "I was just worried I was going to lose another seven decades, lose all of the people I cared about. And not to violence, but to time. Old age."

"But sleep wasn't the problem, not really. Eventually I figured it out. But it took a while. Weeks. And I'm still honestly not a big fan of sleeping, but I do it enough to get by. I figure I've had enough sleep for a lifetime, even if my body doesn't always agree with me." Steve offered the marksman a small smile.

Clint, his anger defused, reflected on that for a moment. "What was the problem?"

"Hmm?"

"You said sleep wasn't the problem. What was?"

Steve considered, then answered, "It was trust. Trusting myself. Trusting others. Trusting that I would wake up again. Once I found friends, people that I could trust, things were better. They're not perfect, probably never going to be, but they're better."

Clint sat down and munched thoughtfully on a handful of chips. Trust. And friends?

It seemed cheesy as fuck, but maybe, just maybe, there was something to that. He seemed to have the 'friends' part down, at least, as hard as that was to believe.

Even if they were really fucking annoying sometimes.


Thanks to all of my readers, followers, favoriters, and reviewers! In the immortal words of Bette Midler (well, Larry Henley and Jeff Silbar, really, but no one ever cares about song writers), "you're the wind beneath my wings."

Please review. I'm not going to beg. But know that I considered it.