Warnings: language, brief mention of drug use.
Thanks to my beta, irite, who is unendingly helpful and awesome.
I do not own the Avengers.
Lying, Bruce reflected, is not my forte.
Well, that wasn't quite true. Lying by omission was one of the cornerstones of living with the Other Guy. You just didn't walk up to new people and say, "Hello, I'm Dr. Bruce Banner, and I sometimes turn into a giant raging monster and smash things." Sometimes, it seemed like he should introduce himself that way. Give people fair warning. But he didn't, because it was easier, and ultimately safer. For him, anyway.
So there was that.
But outright lying, fabricating truth, was not something he was particularly adept at. He got flustered, and mixed up details, and usually ended up flat-out admitting he was lying within a few minutes. Tony said that he thought it was a product of being so goddamn smart and so goddamn nice. Bruce's mind was occupied with other, more interesting things, so the minutiae of his lies were relegated to a position of secondary importance. And he was so disgustingly nice that he felt bad about lying at all. The combination made him fantastically inept at lying.
Bruce had rolled his eyes at the billionaire, and at the phrase 'fantastically inept' (hyperbole, much?) but really, he thought Tony might have a point. God knows he'd never tell him that.
Right now, though, Bruce was getting ready to tell a Pretty Big Fucking Lie. It was 5:10 PM, and he was currently on hold with Fury's secretary. And he knew exactly what the director wanted to talk to him about.
At 8:07 AM, Bruce had noticed that the printout from the lab test he had run on Clint's blood was missing. To any reasonably adept chemist, the sheet clearly indicated the presence of amphetamines and diazepam in the sample.
It had been stupid to leave it lying around. Hell, it had been stupid to keep it at all, but ever since his accident, Bruce had held almost religiously to lab protocol. And that meant documenting the tests he ran.
He should have filed it, though, or at the very least made sure it wasn't sitting right next to the pile of stuff he was sending back to SHIELD.
Before jumping to the absolute worst possible conclusion, though, he had torn the lab apart looking for the missing sheet of paper. For three hours, he had looked through every stack of papers, under every piece of lab equipment, and through every garbage can and paper shredder. When he'd finished all of that, he had made a resolution to be more organized.
For several more hours after his search, he had more-or-less stood in the middle of the lab wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do.
Then he finally decided it was time to jump to the worst possible conclusion.
He had, however inadvertently, just informed SHIELD that Clint had been using illegal drugs.
And this was a serious problem.
Bruce knew that the federal government had some pretty well codified policies about drug use. But he didn't know to what extent SHIELD followed those policies. He wasn't actually sure if they were a federal agency-he was pretty sure it was more of an international thing. And they were so freakishly secretive and covert and did such sensitive work, Bruce didn't know if they had to follow anyfederal regulations or rules.
He thought it was probably best to assume they did not.
So he got ready to lie. He hoped desperately that being on the phone instead of in person would help. But he had his doubts there, too.
"Banner?" Fury's voice came over the line.
"Yes, director? How can I help you?" Play it cool, Banner. Don't Hulk Out on the phone for Christ's sake.
"I got your report today, Banner. I was just wondering why you chose that particular way to inform me that one of my agents was using illegal substances."
And here we go. "I'm sorry, what? That's not...what?"
"The document from the gas-chromata-whatever the fuck it's called. About Barton's blood. What was with the mystery? A phone call would have been a little more helpful."
"I'm sorry, director, but uh...I'm not following. I did include a printout from the GC-MS, but it wasn't Agent Barton's. It was definitely Thompson's."
The line was silent for several seconds. Then, Fury said, "Banner, I'm not an idiot. This document is clearly labeled with Agent Barton's name."
Damn my obsession with labeling everything! "Yeah...this lab has two GC-MS setups. I mislabeled the two samples. I knew which one was which, though. I was actually going to print off a new one with the right name, but then Tony blew up some machinery making fried eggs, and I got distracted."
Another long silence. "Sloppy, Banner. I would think you'd be a little more fucking careful. So you're saying that it was actually Thompson who was using amphetamines and Valium?"
Bruce sighed quietly in relief. "Yeah, that's why I included the printout—"
"Because there's some pretty stiff penalties for lying to cover up a crime, Banner."
Fuck.
"Um...I'm not lying, director. Nope. It was definitely Thompson. Thought it merited mentioning. I have to go now, I think Tony blew something else up. Feel free to call if you have any more questions!"
"Banner-"
Bruce hung up the phone.
Oh Jesus, he had just hung up on Nick Motherfucking Fury. This was bad.
He knew it was time to own up to what had happened. "JARVIS, could you please send Agent Barton down here? Actually, send everyone. We need to talk."
At his end, Fury looked quizzically at the silent receiver in his hand. As it turned out, he had some more questions right now. Banner was lying to him. Of that, there was no doubt. But why? To what goddamn end? Was Barton actually using drugs? The evidence seemed pretty fucking unequivocal. But if Banner was willing to lie about it, he'd have to get new evidence if he wanted to pursue this. Did he even want to pursue this? He knew he should. Protocol demanded it.
Yeah, protocol demanded it. There was a reason for that. He'd better stick with it.
From noon until four o'clock, Clint's day had actually gone pretty well. He didn't try to throw himself off the building. He refrained from punching anything or anyone.
It had been a pretty close call there, though, just after four o'clock. He had been counting down the minutes and seconds until his next dose, pacing back and forth across the kitchen, glaring at the hallway to the elevator and waiting for Natasha to show up.
She didn't.
At 4:03, Clint heard Steve's phone vibrate. The pair had gotten along fairly amicably after Clint's initial hostile outburst. Except for one small incident regarding Steve's fondness for watching movies from the 1940s ("What the fuck is this shit, Rogers?") they had passed the time in silence. Of course, Steve had been watching him carefully the whole time, and not overly subtly, either. But Clint supposed he couldn't blame the supersoldier. After all, it had been Steve who had pulled him off the edge of the roof less than 24 hours ago. If a little hypervigilance was all the mother-henning he was going to be subjected to, he'd take it in a heartbeat.
By 4:00, though, Steve was as eager as Clint was for Natasha's return. Watching Clint fall apart at the seams was disturbing, and incredibly worrisome. First had come the impatient tapping, then the grinding teeth, then the ceaseless rubbing at the temple and forehead. Last, and most recent, was the frenetic pacing.
Although...as he watched Clint wearing a hole in the floor, it occurred to him that Natasha had not actually said that she would be back at 4:00. The pair had just assumed as much.
When his phone vibrated a few minutes after 4:00, Steve whipped it out of his pocket with a speed that clearly communicated how on-edge he had become. He saw that he had a text message from Natasha, and opened it with a sigh of relief.
It read: "Be back 5. Clint's pills in upper right desk drawer. Give him 1 only. White ones not blue."
So Steve made his way into Natasha's room (cautiously; for some reason he thought it might be booby trapped) and opened the top right desk drawer. He found the container with the white pills and shook out a single tablet. He walked back to the kitchen, where Clint was perched on a barstool, viciously kicking the legs with his feet, and scowling at the countertop like it had personally insulted him.
"Here," Steve held out the pill, feeling possibly more awkward than he ever had in his life.
Clint's eyes slowly traced from the single tablet, up Steve's arm, to his face. The marksman clenched his jaw and his eyes flashed.
Steve tensed as well, ready to act if Clint lashed out.
As quickly as it had come, though, it passed. Clint swiped the pill from Steve's hand and popped it in his mouth. Slowly, resentfully, he stalked towards his bedroom.
"Where are you going?" Steve called after him.
"I'm going to take a shower. You want to come?" Clint growled over his shoulder.
"Uh...?"
The door slammed before Steve could get any further than that.
Alone for the first time in a bit more than fourteen hours (has it really only been fourteen hours, my God it feels like it's been an eternity), Clint was a little unsure what to do with himself. He didn't really need to shower again, although he suspected Tasha might disagree with his assessment.
Oh, what the hell. Cleanliness is next to godliness, they always say. Whoever the fuck 'they' are.
If nothing else, it was a decent way to pass the time. The hot water pounding on his back loosened the muscles there almost enough that they stopped shrieking at him, and he could dim the lights so it felt less like they were physically cutting into his brain.
So he stayed there for another hour, thinking idly about the disaster that Stark's water bill was going to be. Clint wondered if, at any point in his life, the billionaire had ever actually looked at his water bill. He had some doubts.
Since he didn't have the option of running out of hot water to force him out of the shower, he had planned on staying there roughly until the end of time. Until JARVIS spoke into the bathroom (scaring him nearly to death, not that he would ever admit as much), "Agent Barton, Dr. Banner has requested your presence on the 75th floor."
"Has he now?" Clint mused.
"Indeed, sir. Shall I tell him you're coming?"
Well, Banner wasn't one for idle chitchat. If he wanted to talk, it was probably serious. And, fuck, given how his whole life was going lately, it was probably bad.
"Yeah, I'll be down in a few. Hey, JARVIS?"
"Yes?"
"Did Natasha ever come back?"
"Yes sir. Agent Romanoff returned half an hour ago. Would you like me to send her in?"
"I'm in the shower."
"Yes, sir, you are."
"No, I do not want you to send Natasha in here."
"Very well, sir. I apologize; I had not imagined that your nudity would be a problem."
"...Yeah, thanks for your help. Now...stop talking, it's creeping me out."
"Of course, sir."
With a sigh, he turned off the spray and reached for a towel. Even Stark's fucking AI thought that he and Tasha were sleeping together. Wonderful.
While he was waiting for the others, Bruce logged into both computers and altered the records for the tests he had run. He then fiddled around with the programming to alter the timestamps on when the files were last updated. He figured that would hold his lie up for about 3.5 seconds longer than it was going to last, anyway.
Yeah, he was doomed.
Tony was the first to arrive to the impromptu meeting. "What's up?" he asked, taking a swig from a giant mug of what Bruce hoped was only coffee.
"I, uh...we should wait until the others get here."
Oh, so it was something serious. Tony wished he'd taken the time to add something extra to his coffee.
Steve wandered in next, and Bruce shot him a reassuring smile while gesturing for him to sit.
Clint and Natasha arrived together, Natasha looking angry and exhausted, and Clint looking only slightly bitter and...damp.
Now that they had all assembled, Bruce found he really didn't want to do this. But, swallowing his pride, he began, "I, uh. Well. I fucked up, guys."
Now he had their attention.
Bruce wasn't sure if he should start with an apology or the facts.
He thought maybe going with the "apology" might help him avoid ending up with his face looking like Tony's. He decided to start there. "Clint. I'm sorry. I did something stupid, and it's...really not good for you."
As he explained about the printout, feeling progressively more and more like shit, he watched what little color there had been in Clint's face drain away. When he was done, the marksman was almost completely white.
But, he hadn't tried to hit anything. So that had to be good, right?
Maybe not. Clint stood abruptly and walked to one of the garbage cans in the corner, where he rather violently vomited up whatever it was he had eaten for his last meal.
Okay, that wasn't good.
"Are you okay?" Natasha asked him, when he'd finished retching.
"Never...never better," he replied a little breathlessly, scanning the room for anything that might get the taste of regurgitated potato chips out of his mouth. He honed in on Tony's coffee and, with more grace and skill than anyone would have expected given the circumstances, snatched it straight out of the billionaire's hand and gulped down roughly half the cup.
"Hey...I was drinking that."
Clint wordlessly offered him the mug back.
"Fuck no, Barton, it's got your barf germs in it now."
Clint shrugged and sat down (Real smooth, Barton, that's right, act like that was normal), placing the cup within easy reach. No point in letting good coffee go to waste.
He tried to ignore the steady increase in his heart rate, the tightening band of constriction around his lungs, the way the room had begun to spin.
After Clint returned to his seat and everyone was done staring at him, Bruce found himself again under careful scrutiny. He could tell that Natasha was pissed. He thought that was fair-he'd fucked up pretty badly. Tony and Steve, though, seemed more neutral.
"This isn't your fault, Bruce," Steve spoke after a moment. "Not entirely," he added, when it became clear that Bruce was about to interject. "I'd say we're all in this together. So let's think of a solution."
"I've been trying," Bruce replied. "I might have started with lying to Fury."
He launched into an explanation of that. He finished with, "So I bought some time. Probably only about four seconds, but at least if Fury wants to do anything he's going to have to have the drug test run again." He turned to Natasha. "Do you know anything about SHIELD's policy about this? They're a government agency, I assume they have a policy."
She nodded slowly. "I'd have to look up the specifics. But from what I remember, it's pretty clear that any agent using drugs will be removed from active duty."
Next to her, Tony was furiously tapping away on his tablet. A moment later, he read aloud, "Any SHIELD agent found to be using illegal substances will not be permitted to perform any job-related duties." He skimmed down the page, then continued, "Any SHIELD agent who freely admits to using illegal substances will be offered counseling and other assistance with cessation...if the agent refuses these services, he or she will be dismissed from the Agency." He looked up. "Well, that's not so bad."
"Did you just hack SHIELD?" Steve asked, unsure if he should be scolding or impressed.
Tony scoffed. "Please. Hacking wouldn't have taken that long. I just used Google."
"...Oh."
"That's a lot less draconian than I expected it to be," Bruce mused, after a moment. "I kind of figured it would be a one-strike-and-you're-out sort of thing."
Steve nodded. "Yeah, Clint, from what it sounds like you just have to walk in there and admit..." a quick glance at the marksman had the words dying on his tongue, though. Because Clint didn't look relieved, or reassured. Really, he looked like he was going to throw up again. He was breathing quickly, but shallowly, and the complete lack of color in his face made the fine sheen of sweat on his brow stand out prominently.
"Clint?" Natasha said, placing one hand on his shoulder.
He stood, quickly, and tried to move away. He didn't get very far, though, because a wave of dizziness had him sitting back down in a heartbeat. Instead, he hunched over with his head down between his knees, trying to ward off another bout of nausea.
Natasha wasn't quite sure, but she thought he might be having a panic attack.
This was, Clint thought, fucking infuriating. Because it had come out of nowhere.
Well, not completely. Of course, finding out that SHIELD now knew what he'd been trying to keep from them had been a shock. But he'd thought, after the gut-clenching spike of anxiety that had caused him to lose his lunch, he'd calm down again. He hadn't.
Because his mind, fueled by the combination of the drugs and the withdrawal symptoms that they just weren't alleviating, was so much more creative than he'd ever really known it to be. Without any input from him, it had begun constructing a list of worst-case scenarios that would have put the world's most determined pessimist to shame. They culminated with him dying alone and drug-addled on the streets of New York, just some worthless, nameless bum for whom dying was the best, most generous thing he could do for society.
He would have expected that train of thought to stop when Stark read SHIELD's unexpectedly considerate policy for dealing with drug use in the workplace. But it didn't. It just switched directions.
Because he couldn't just admit to being this fucked up. He wasn't just an addict, he was completely fucking insane underneath it. Afraid to sleep? What the fuck was that, if not crazy? And whatever the fuck was happening right now, this sudden, crushing fear, that was completely normal. Everyone already distrusted him after what had happened with Loki. If they knew he had lost it, it wouldn't matter if he wasn't fired from SHIELD or not, because no one would ever feel comfortable working with him again. In that case, he might as well die (alone, on the streets, oh god not this again) because his life would be, effectively, over.
In his chest, it felt like his heart might actually explode. What little air there was in his lungs had turned to lead. His vision went gray at the edges.
An unknown amount of time passed before, "Clint. Clint! Barton." Faint, as if from a great distance. He latched onto the voice, though, as it gave him something to focus on other than the awful certainty that he was suffocating.
He opened his eyes (When did I close them?) and saw Natasha was crouched in front of him. Steve, Tony, and Bruce were standing in a rough half-circle behind her, and they all wore matching concerned expressions.
Bruce stepped forward and cautiously took Clint's wrist in his hand, feeling for a pulse. He wasn't a doctor (yet), but he'd had enough background in medicine that he could state with certainty, "Tachycardic. With the hyperventilation and apparent dizziness, I'd say it was probably a panic attack. Has this happened before?"
Breathing a little easier, Clint nodded. "Never...during the day, though. Only at night, when..."
"When you're trying to sleep," Tony finished. He looked, frankly, nauseated. He knew that Clint had trouble sleeping, hence this whole problem, but he hadn't imagined that was what it was like. Hell, he couldn't blame Barton for trying to avoid going through that.
"It's usually worse at night," Clint added.
Yeah, definitely couldn't blame him.
"How long...?" Clint was going to say, 'was I out,' but it occurred to him that he'd never actually lost consciousness.
"Almost fifteen minutes," Bruce answered, understanding what Clint was trying to ask. He gave Clint a moment to process that before asking, "What were you thinking...before?"
Clint didn't answer, just began massaging the point just above his left eyebrow.
"Clint?" Natasha prompted.
"I'm fucked," he muttered, not meeting her eyes,
"What?"
"I said, 'I'm fucked,'" he stated more clearly, his eyes narrowed. He stood, fighting against lingering dizziness and nausea, and against the ever-present pain in his head. He walked over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and rested his forehead against the glass.
"Not necessarily," Tony said. "I mean, yeah, the situation's pretty shitty, but it's not like SHIELD's going to fire you, unless you do something fucking stupid like refuse to undergo treatment."
"Which you're not going to do," Natasha added, unequivocal.
"Don't you get it?" he replied, turning and stalking to the other side of the room. He sat back on his stool, but stood again a second later, opting to lean against the lab table instead. That didn't suit him either, though, so he moved to perch on top of the filing cabinet.
Four pairs of eyes watched him traverse the room.
"Get what?" Tony asked, when it became clear that Clint wasn't going to move again, at least immediately.
"It doesn't matter if they fire me," Clint said. "No one's ever going to trust the insane, drug-addicted sniper. Fuck, I wouldn't. I don't. And that makes me worthless to SHIELD. To any team."
"I trust you."
Clint looked up, surprised. "What?"
Steve shrugged, looking awkward. He repeated, "I trust you."
"Yeah, Barton, you're not just an 'insane, drug-addicted sniper.' You're an Avenger, and that makes you, above all else, a bad-ass motherfucker. I think we all trust you," Tony added.
Bruce nodded. "This whole team's like the island of misfit toys, Clint. We've all got issues. But we can work them out. It's not like we're only defined by what we've done wrong." A truth that they had all struggled with, at one point or another.
"But SHIELD..."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Oh, fuck SHIELD. We'll deal with them, too. Jump through their hoops, do what they want you to. At the end of that, if they're still being a pain in the ass, you'll still have a place here."
Clint looked floored. Even Natasha looked surprised-she had known that Tony had been reluctant to join up with any kind of team, so to see that he'd embraced the idea so fully was unexpected.
Realizing that everyone was now staring at him, Tony said, "What? Don't look at me like that. I'm just seizing the opportunity to take control of one of Fury's most valuable assets, that's all. Don't read too much into it."
But no one believed him. At all.
"So, what do you say, Clint? We've got your back. You gonna trust us?" Steve asked.
Slowly, Clint nodded and shrugged. "What the fuck, right?"
Tony stood, clapping his hands together. "Great! Glad that's settled...Now what?"
Hey, you just finished, and this is crazy, but if you liked it, review, maybe?
Yeah, going to go shoot myself in the head now, I don't deserve to go on living after that.
Seriously, though. Review. Please?
