Warnings: language, mostly. The usual sorts of stuff.

Thanks to my beta, irite, for ceaseless epicosity.

I do not own The Avengers.


"What do you mean Bruce is in a lake?" Natasha sounded incredulous.

Tony clarified, "I didn't say he was in a lake, I said his GPS location is in a lake. Honestly, Romanoff, don't you listen?"

She glared at him. But before she could hurl the undoubtedly cutting and witty comeback she had prepared, Steve stepped in. "Okay, Tony, what does that mean, exactly?"

Tony heaved a sigh at Steve's technical ineptitude. "It means that his phone, at least, is in this lake." Tony pointed at the map he'd pulled up on one of the many screens in his lab. "It hasn't moved in the last 25 minutes. So, I'm hoping that means that it's just his phone in the lake. Because if Bruce is in the lake with it, he hasn't moved in almost half an hour, and that's, uh, bad."

He sounded as flippant as usual, but he looked strained, and Natasha could detect a strong undercurrent of worry coursing through his words. She supplied, "I think we should start there, then. At the lake."

Steve nodded, and Tony began to pack up, quickly syncing the necessary data with JARVIS. Thor, though, looked unsure. "Is it wise to make Dr. Banner our top priority? From what my brother has told me of the Chitauri's blood, I think it is most prudent that we locate that first."

Tony looked miffed at Thor's apparent lack of concern for Bruce, but then it occurred to him that, of all of them, Bruce was probably the least likely to come to harm in his current situation. Still, though, he couldn't let Thor's insensitivity go unaddressed. Because, of course, Tony Stark was a paragon of sensitivity. "Don't be a dick, Point Break, Bruce—"

Clint, surprisingly, interrupted him. He had been lingering towards the back of the group (well, maybe not 'lingering'...it had been more like 'fidgeting excessively'), secretly relishing having their focus on something else for once, even as awful as the circumstances were. Now, though, he pointed out, "But we don't have any clues about the blood. We do have a lead on Banner. And...one's probably going to lead to the other, anyway."

They all turned and stared at him, silent. Defensive, he growled, "What?"

Tony shook his head. "Sorry, Barton, kinda forgot you were here."

Clint's first reaction, as was the case so often of late, was a bright flash of anger. He reigned that in quickly, though (don't be irrational, Barton, now's not the time), instead attempting a smile that ended up looking more like a strained grimace. "Yeah. Sorry. But I'm pretty sure they'll be together."

Natasha agreed with him, but she was curious. "Why do you say that?"

Clint nodded towards Tony. "Stark said that Banner was the only person who had accessed the files from here, and his security system wasn't breached, either. Building security was all good, too."

Tony was floored; he hadn't even thought Clint had been listening to, let alone retaining, his running monologue on his security scans earlier—he'd mostly been talking for the sake of hearing his own voice. He hadn't thought Clint had been capable of listening. The archer had been completely strung out, had cracked only a short time later. Yet even in that condition, he'd been paying attention, gathering information, processing. It was...impressive. Intimidating, even.

But Natasha acted like it was completely mundane. She just looked thoughtful. "So, the changes would have had to have been made at the other end?"

"That's what I was thinking, yeah. And Lucas could have done it easily."

"Don't you think it's a little early to be accusing people?" Steve interjected, looking affronted. "I mean, that's your co-worker you're accusing of kidnapping and who knows what else!"

"Give it a rest, Cap," Tony said, tossing a few more miscellaneous items, including what looked like a pencil sharpener, into the bag slung over his shoulder. "It wouldn't be the first time someone's co-worker went completely nuts on the job and started taking people out—"

He cut himself off abruptly, aware (and actually caring, for once) that he had just made a faux pas. Clint took it in stride, though. At least, as close to 'in-stride' as he took anything anymore; he 'strode' out the door without a backwards glance.

Natasha growled, "Nice, Stark," before following after Clint.

The door swooshed shut behind her. After a beat of pressing silence, Thor asked, "What is it that ails Barton? He is not well."

He had addressed his question at Steve, but it was Tony who answered. "Huh. Noticed that, did you?" Since the demigod's arrival, Clint had circled the lab no less than eight times, had rearranged a display of Tony's doodads twice, had broken into an impressive sweat, had snapped at Natasha, Tony, and Steve, and had needed to sit down with his head between his knees twice. It wasn't exactly subtle that something was up with him.

Thor bristled, and Tony decided he'd better just spit it out, get it over with before Thor decided it was hammer time. "He's all fucked up after the shit your brother did to him."

Well, that hadn't been quite what he had wanted to say. He'd been trying to defuse the situation. Whoops.

Annoyed that he once again was apparently being relegated to the role of 'peacekeeper,' Steve explained (with a pointed glare at Tony), "What Tony means is that, uh..." He realized that he didn't know if Thor would have any kind of frame of reference for drug use and addiction. Hell, he barely did. That seemed like a good place to start, so he asked, "Do the people on Asgard ever get drunk?"

Thor, who had been looking irate after Tony's last remark, seemed momentarily disconcerted, then laughed. "Indeed they do, Captain. There is no finer mead to be found in all of the realms than that which comes from Asgard. But why do you ask?"

Tony realized where Steve was trying to go with this. "Do they ever do stuff that's like getting drunk, but isn't?"

Thor looked puzzled, but slowly his expression cleared. "I believe I know what you are asking. Yes, there are many means of intoxication available on Asgard, with different effects. Some are more...potent than others."

Tony wasn't surprised; drug use had been ubiquitous on Earth throughout history, and he didn't think that the Asgardians were really all that superior to them in terms of habits and vices, no matter what Thor might say about the subject. "Good. Great. So, think of it this way. Barton started using this stuff that let him stay awake for days at a time. Now he's trying to stop using it, but it's not going too well. His body got used to functioning with that shit in his system, and now that it's gone it's pretty awful for him. Apparently."

Thor nodded slowly. "I see. But why would he deny himself sleep?"

"Because he's all fucked up after what your brother—"

Steve interrupted him before he could finish that charming thought for the second time. "It's complicated. But he blames himself for what he did when Loki was controlling him. He's afraid if he loses control, like if he goes to sleep, he's going to do all of that stuff again."

"So he started using that shit to stop sleeping, and it killed his appetite, so he stopped eating. Then he decided to give up the drugs. Then he decided to give up living, but Steve here managed to put a stop to that. Now Barton's on three different kinds of medication, and I don't think he's managed to keep a meal down in three days because he's having panic attacks every five minutes and puking—"

Steve put a hand on Tony's shoulder, quieting the tirade that had been growing progressively louder and more aggressive. The billionaire fell into a sulky silence.

Looking as if he were in physical pain, Thor closed his eyes and bowed his head. He wasn't quite clear what 'medication' was, and 'panic attack' was an unknown quantity as well, but he could tell from Stark's other words and tone that the situation with Barton was grave indeed. "I had not realized the extent of the evil my brother had wrought. This is most distressing!"

"Yeah, you think?" Tony knew that all of this wasn't Thor's fault, but he was the closest thing to Loki, and Tony needed to be pissed off at someone. He was still rattled from the incident with Clint less than an hour ago. He hadn't gotten the chance to decompress from that before this new shit had started, and now he was just a bit edgy.

Thor looked like he was going to say something defensive, but Natasha stuck her head in the door before he and Tony could go back to their posturing. "Are you guys coming or what? We have to move. Stark, I need a word with you."

Tony didn't like being singled out. But the three men just looked at each other before following Natasha out of the lab and down to the parking garage.


Tony's remark had been tasteless, but it hadn't actually upset Clint that much. Just enough to send his heartrate up a notch, to make him sure that he needed to get out of that room now.

But, he hadn't even thrown up. That was progress.

Clint was unsurprised when Natasha caught up to him. He hadn't gone that far; only to the atrium in front of the elevator. He'd thought vaguely of heading up to the roof, but he thought it was going to be a long time before anyone would trust him up there alone. To avoid the kind of drama he and Tony had earlier, he instead opted to slump down into one of the atrium's chairs.

Natasha flopped next to him a second later. "You okay?"

He nodded, then shrugged. Then shook his head.

She sighed. "Thanks for clarifying that, Clint."

He chuckled, but sobered quickly. "It was just a surprise. What he said. Shouldn't have been; he's an ass. I'll do better."

Natasha sighed again. "You're doing fine, Clint. Really. No one's expecting..."

He shook his head, interrupting her, "I fucked up earlier. I found my pills in your room, Tasha."

She stiffened. "What happened?"

"Not much. I took some. Stark thought I took them all, made me puke. Flushed the rest."

She relaxed a minute amount, but then became more rigid. "He flushed the rest?"

Her tone was edged with panic, and Clint did not know why. "Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Clint...we've been cutting down slowly."

It still wasn't clicking for him. "I know that. Christ, Tasha."

"Do you have any more of those pills?"

Now he was getting pissed off. "What the fuck, Nat? No. That was it. Jesus, do you think I've been hiding them on you?"

"What? No. Clint. Look. We were weaning you off that shit so that the withdrawal wouldn't be as bad. But now we're out."

And now it clicked. "Oh, fuck." He looked at his watch. It was about 7:30. He had less than five hours until his next dose—which wasn't going to come.

Now Natasha had no idea what to do. She'd been iffy about bringing Clint along on the rescue mission, but she'd agreed when Tony had insisted. Tony said Clint needed the distraction, and now Natasha knew why—he'd nearly relapsed.

But now there was no way she could bring Clint along. In approximately five hours, the tenuous control he had over his symptoms would start to break. And his other issues would resurface. The anxiety that plagued him was made worse by withdrawal; without the continuing low dose of the drug, Natasha knew it would become even more pronounced. He had meds for it, now, but being stoned on a prescription benzodiazepine wasn't really a viable option, either. Not if he was going to be able to keep himself safe. That, along with the mood swings, the anger, the sheer pain he was going to be in...she could not let him come.

As she considered all of that, Clint did some considering of his own. The look on his face could be best described as "stricken." He knew exactly what was going to happen to him in terms of his symptoms, and he was...distressed.

"It's already...if it's going to get worse...Nat, I can't do this."

She'd heard that before, and things had gone very badly shortly thereafter.

But he was going to have to do it. And without her. Without any of them. The safety net they had been constructing for days had been suddenly ripped into pieces, and she hated herself for what she was going to do to him.

"You have to stay here, Barton."

He looked, if possible, more upset. "What? Nat, no, you can't just leave me here—" he choked out.

Natasha knew he was right. He couldn't be alone. Not with what was going to happen to him in a few hours. "We'll take you back to SHIELD, then. They'll be able to help you, there's medication that can help. It'll be okay, I promise."

Clint did not seem reassured. In fact, he looked on the verge of breaking down completely. But they didn't have time for that. "Clint, it's too dangerous for you to come like this. You are falling apart. If you can't take care of yourself, you have no business in the field. You know that. And don't tell me you'll be able to take care of yourself. You can't. Not like this."

He knew it was true. Oh, God, it was so true. But... "SHIELD, Tasha?"

She hated it, too. "Do you have a better idea?"

He didn't.

"Okay. I'll go grab the others. Wait for me here, I'll be back in a minute." She walked down the hall, casting frequent looks over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't moved.

He didn't, opting to sit quietly, trying to still the trembling that had begun in his fingertips. He wondered, as he had several times in the last few days, if it was possible to hate himself more than he did in that precise moment.

You're completely useless, Barton. Completely fucking useless.

It was an old, familiar refrain, one that only grew louder and more persistent as he followed Natasha and the other Avengers to the parking garage.


Bruce prided himself on the fact that he did not Hulk Out every time someone pointed a gun at him. At the moment, he was pretty irritated, might even be nudging his way up into 'anger,' but he was still completely in control.

Still, he felt compelled to say, "You know I have a, uh, 'condition,' right?"

Lucas shot him a long, hard look. "Yeah, Banner. Who doesn't?"

Bruce considered pointing out that it would take a special brand of stupid to kidnap someone who, when angry, became a hugely violent and destructive monster. He thought better of it, though. He didn't want to provoke Lucas into shooting him—it wouldn't kill him, but he'd Hulk Out, and then he wouldn't be able to gather any useful information at all.

Of course, he wasn't having much success in gathering information at the moment. Lucas had been pretty quiet about his plans, offering him only a smarmy "You'll see" when Bruce had asked him where they were going. When Bruce asked about the 'why,' Lucas hadn't said anything at all. So, maybe he should just break out of here. But...he really wanted to know what Lucas was planning. He'd hold out for awhile longer.

Bruce had been a little annoyed when Lucas had suddenly demanded his phone 20 miles ago and had pulled over to toss it into a nearby lake. Bruce knew Tony could trace it via GPS. Still, it had taken Lucas over two hours to reach the same conclusion, so that would get Tony and the others pretty close. Assuming that Lucas was going to stop soon. Which Bruce didn't know for sure, but the gas tank indicated that they were either getting close to their destination, or that Lucas planned to stop to fill up somewhere—and that was so hard to do with a hostage.

It seemed like a pretty safe bet that they were nearly there.

So Bruce sat quietly in the passenger's seat, watching the passing scenery and trying to get a feel for their location.

After a few minutes of silence, Lucas spoke. "I was hoping to get Stark, actually."

Bruce was not surprised; everyone always wanted Tony. In this case, Bruce found that his feelings were not particularly hurt, though. "Yeah? Why?"

"Publicity would be better. And he doesn't have a 'condition.' But this will work out. That group of fucking freaks will come for you, and I'll just get them all, then. It might be better."

The phrase 'get them all' wasn't one that Bruce found particularly comforting. "Get them all...for what?"

But Lucas didn't answer.

Another ten minutes, and they pulled off the road onto a long dirt driveway. At the end, there was a large cabin. It was two stories, with stunning windows that spanned the entire front of the building, offering a panoramic view of the surrounding forest. One more car was parked out front, and Bruce could see another partially obscured by some foliage. Lucas pulled in next to the other car and cut the engine. He pulled the gun out of his coat and pointed it at Bruce. "Welcome to my little forest getaway. Now get in the fucking house."

With a sigh, Bruce complied.

Lucas guided him inside, past what Bruce assumed was the living room and kitchen, and led him to a staircase that went down into the basement. He maneuvered Bruce down the stairs. At the bottom, seemingly out of nowhere, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and fastened one of the cuffs to a pipe running across the low ceiling. The other, of course, went around Bruce's wrist.

Wonderful.

Without saying a single word, Lucas turned and left him there. As he headed back upstairs, Bruce gave his restraints an experimental tug, but the cuffs held. Unless he let Other Guy out, then, he was going to be stuck here. And he wasn't going to do that until he knew who those other cars belonged to, who else was in the cabin. He was a responsible rage monster, damn it.

Bruce thought, Well, at least he left the light on. He went back into information-gathering mode, surveying the room.

It was mostly empty, except for the usual basement decor, like a furnace and water heater, washer and dryer.

And also what he presumed were the missing barrels from SHIELD, along with about 15 of their friends.

Oh, now this is just great.


Natasha chewed Tony out, which Clint didn't think the billionaire strictly deserved. Then she'd called Fury and explained the situation, and he'd given them the go-ahead for the rescue mission. As for Clint, he had suggested that Natasha "Call fucking medical and tell them they're babysitting Barton's ass."

She had, and then they had all piled into the huge black SUV that Natasha had checked out from SHIELD. It was a bit of a tight fit, but even Tony didn't complain about the situation, which Natasha found astounding. He'd just sat quietly, doing something on his phone.

Clint was also uncharacteristically quiet, fiddling with the windows and tapping his fingers nervously on his thighs, but otherwise sitting reasonably still. Natasha wasn't sure she liked that.

Still, she didn't have too much time to dwell on it. The drive was quick, and she soon pulled up in front of SHIELD, near the doors of the medical wing. She looked at Clint. "They're expecting you. Do you want me to come in with you?"

He glared back at her, and opened the door. "No. I'm fine." He got out and walked around to the back of the car and grabbed his bag from the trunk, slamming the hatch with unnecessary force. He returned to the other door and moved to slam it, too.

Before he could, though, Natasha said, "We'll be back soon, Clint. Just—"

He closed the door, cutting her off, and stalked towards the building. With a sigh, Natasha put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.


Clint looked quickly over his shoulder and watched Natasha drive away. When she turned the corner, he made an abrupt change of course, heading away from the doors to the medical wing. He circled the building, using his security code to enter through the doors that would lead him to the stairs down to the locker rooms.

He had decided, on the ride over, that he was done being fucking useless. He could decide what was safe for him, what he could handle. That should be up to him, damn it. And he could do this.

It was after hours, and there weren't many people around. The few who did see him either didn't know him or thought he belonged there. He made it down to the locker rooms with no trouble. Clint dumped out the bag he had packed, stuffing the clothes and other personal crap into his locker. He pulled out his bow and quiver and placed them in the bag, and then threw in a couple of guns. He found his uniform and all his accoutrement, and quickly changed, fighting off a wave of dizziness and the accompanying irritation. Once it passed, he surveyed his locker and quickly added a pair of knives to his ensemble.

Great. But he needed one more thing. And it was going to be a little tricky to acquire.

Clint took the elevator to the appropriate floor, resting his head against the cool metal of the doors as he rode up. The first set of double doors on the floor was locked, but that was just a momentary inconvenience—although, compared to how quickly he could usually pick a lock, it took him an eternity. He wound his way through the hallways, checking around corners as he reached them to make sure there was no one around. He carefully avoided a pair of janitors and one lingering medical transcriptionist, and he soon found himself outside of his destination—the pharmacy.

The lock on that door was significantly more complicated. But not insurmountably so. Picking it gave him time to reconsider his choices.

You know, there's an easier way to do this.

But this was how he'd decided to do it.

He had the door open in a matter of moments.

He made his way back to the storage area and began a quick perusal of the shelves, hoping that they had what he needed. Fucking SHIELD has everything, so they damn well better have this...

Of course, they did.

Clint took the bottle off the shelf, and handily located the smaller bottles that prescriptions were usually dispensed in. He filled one, and placed the larger bottle back in its spot.

He was about to stuff the smaller bottle in his bag, but he was seized with a sudden visceral need that was so violent that it took his breath away.

They are in your hand, Barton.

That was true. They were. A whole fucking bottle's worth, right there, and no one around to stop him. He could fix all of his problems, kill this headache, stop the shakes, the muscle pain, the anger that kept flaring up at all the wrong moments. He could stop it so damn fast, go back to "normal" in less than a half hour.

He uncapped the bottle, shaking out four of the pills.

And stopped.

Because this wasn't going to fix his problems. He'd still be a fucking mess, terrified of sleeping, afraid of screwing up, paralyzed by anxiety half the damn time. This wasn't a solution, it would just prolong the damn problem. He needed this shit, he couldn't deny that, but he could control the when and the why and the how much. He could choose, and it was about time to make the right damn choice.

Slowly, Clint put the pills back into the bottle. With more energy, he capped it and shoved it in his bag. He looked at his watch. It was 8:30. So, three and a half hours until his next dose. He could do that.

He ignored the suddenly intensified throbbing in his head and the whisper at the back of mind that was insisting No you can't. He didn't have time for any of that. He had a job to do.

He slipped out of the medical wing the same way he'd slipped in. He was more careful, though, knowing that they'd probably be looking for him by now—medical had been expecting him, after all, and they were not going to be happy that they had lost a drug-addled, anxiety-stricken assassin.

Stealthily, Clint made his way down to the motor pool to 'borrow' a car. He picked one out, and, using the license plate number, set his GPS to track the SUV the others were in. God bless government paranoia, he thought, as a glowing dot appeared on the display. Keeping all of these cars linked.

He pulled onto the street and began the drive towards Bruce's last known location.


You guys are lucky I wrote most of this chapter early in the week. If I had written it yesterday or today, I probably would have killed everyone and ended the story there. But I'm going to go nurse my sprained ankle, curse my ecology class, and try to find $1600 to fix my car instead of re-writing this chapter to add in some death and destruction.

Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing and following and favoriting. These things make me happy.