Warnings: language, mention of drug use, angst.

Thanks as always to irite for being betatastic.

This has over 200 reviews, everyone, and that makes me ridiculously happy. You are all awesome.

I do not own The Avengers.


The walk to the school was uneventful.

Except for the staring. Clint was sure that they made an interesting picture. Seeing a group of people dressed this way—capes, shields, metal suits—outside of October 31st was undoubtedly odd. But it wasn't exactly like they were an unknown entity—the whole saving Manhattan thing had gotten some pretty serious press coverage, so Clint wasn't sure what they were staring at.

Then again, Clint thought to himself, trooping faithfully behind the others, the last strangers who came through here set a bunch of stuff on fire, so maybe they're not feeling real hospitable right now.

He pushed his concern out of his mind. People in small towns, especially in ones like this, with a population under 500 people, could be...insular. Distrustful of outsiders.

The perfect place, then, for Lucas to actuate his little plan.

Asshole probably knew it, too.

Standing in the parking lot just outside the school, Steve stopped next to a large pickup truck, the lone vehicle in the lot, and glanced around. "Where's Natasha?"

Clint heard a very quiet frustrated sigh from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down.

Natasha was underneath the truck, propped up on her elbows, glaring up at them. She slipped out from where she was laying, smoothly hopping up so that she was standing. From behind the others (who, excepting Clint, had not yet noticed her), she muttered, "You guys really have no concept of subtlety, do you?" They jumped, and she smirked, adding, "Clint, I expected better of you."

She was maybe half-serious, he could tell, so he shrugged an apology. Really, it hadn't even occurred to him to take a stealthy approach to this (more evidence that you don't belong here, Barton), but now that he had, just walking up to the building seemed stupidly dangerous. No one knew what these guys were planning, and being out in the open like this was an invitation for disaster.

"Safe to say they're not going to pick us off in the parking lot," Natasha noted, glaring at Tony to silence whatever smartass thing he'd been about to say. "They would have done it already." She looked at Steve. "What's our move?"

Sufficiently recovered from being startled, Steve replied, "You said he had hostages?"

Natasha gestured towards the building. The lights were on in one of the upstairs rooms. "I saw four or five people walking around up there. Looked like one of them had a gun."

Steve nodded. "Could they be accomplices, do you think, and not hostages?"

"I don't think so. One of them was pretty small. A kid. Not really the villainous type."

"I don't know," Tony interjected, "When I was a kid—"

Steve and Natasha shot him identical glares, and he quieted. Everyone back on task, Steve continued, "Okay, so we've got a probable hostage situation. We know at least one of our perpetrators is up there. Any info on the other one?"

Natasha shook her head. "Sorry, too hard to tell from here."

"Why don't we just head on up and check it out?" Tony asked, impatient, hovering a few inches above the ground. "Just standing here isn't doing any damn good. Besides, I'm making a pitch to the board at 9:00 and I'd kind of like to be there, because my new idea is awesome."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Somehow, I think you're going to miss the board meeting, Stark. Just walking into an unknown situation is inadvisable."

"Why are we so hesitant? I do not think dealing with one or two mortals will pose much of a challenge," Thor declared.

Bruce coughed. "Yeah, but some of us don't do surprises very well."

"Oh, you'll be fine, it's not like—"

Clint had zoned out of the conversation several seconds ago (somewhere around Natasha asking 'What's our move,' and really he should have been paying attention to that but, well, he wasn't), but he had just been drawn back into it by how annoying it was listening to them all argue. It was infuriating, actually. Kind of drilling into his skull. With so much fucking ego in one place, it was a miracle they ever agreed on anything, kind of amazing they ever managed to get anything done and— "Oh, for Christ's sake let's just fucking go!"

Everyone stopped their bickering and stared at him.

Yeah, that looked crazy, he thought, feeling a blush working its way into his face. "Um. I mean, we should get moving. Get this over with."

"You're right," Steve said, after a moment, making what seemed like a concerted effort to not draw attention to Clint's outburst. "Dragging this out isn't going to help. Why don't we head up? Bruce, if you think you need to, you can wait outside..."

Bruce considered. "I think it'll be okay. Besides, you need all the non-explosive hands you can get."

That's fucking true, Clint thought, looking down at his own hands. They were trembling again.

"Sure," Steve agreed. He trusted Bruce to know his own limits. "Then let's move."

They made their way towards the entrance nearest to them. The door was, of course, locked.

Natasha looked at it, then at Clint. "All you, Barton."

He set to picking the lock. It took him far longer than he would have liked, his unsteady hands and headache complicating things and frustrating him to the point that he considered just having Thor or Steve or Tony knock the damn door down instead.

What's the point of having these guys around if you can't have them commit property damage once in awhile, Christ.

Clint eventually got the door open and held it for the others as they filed past him. There was a staircase on their right, lit only by the light from the emergency exit signs. They slowly made their way up, Steve in front, Clint at the back.

Light was spilling out of the third door on the left, so Steve led them there, his shield held up in front of them. They filed cautiously into the room.

Lucas was sitting on the teacher's desk at the front of the room, gun casually resting in one hand, several syringes full of thick green liquid on the table next to him. At his feet were four other people, two adults and two children. They weren't bound or gagged, but Clint supposed that the threat of being shot was probably enough to keep them from trying anything.

"Nice of you to come by," Lucas greeted them conversationally, like they had just stopped by his office for a quick visit. "I was wondering if you would."

"Dude, cut the crap," Tony said, aiming his repulsor at the scientist. "You're done."

"Am I? I don't know, I still think there's plenty we could do." Lucas picked up one of the syringes with his free hand, idly rolling it through his fingers. He nodded at Bruce, the picture of professional courtesy. "Good to see you again, Banner."

"Yeah, you too," Bruce replied, equally courteous. "Where's your friend? I was hoping for the full...reunion."

Lucas smirked. "He's around. Had an errand to run or something. But it's fine, we can have the party without him. I brought guests." He gestured to the people in front of him.

Clint found himself wondering about other people's definitions of the word 'party.' He had to agree with Nat, there. To him, it seemed like anything involving syringes full of Chitauri blood was not going to be a party. It was going to be a giant fucking disaster.

Steve seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Dr. Lucas, why don't you set that down and come with us? We can still fix this."

Lucas barked a short laugh. "Nah, I'm good. Kinda planned on seeing this through to the end, so, might as well, right?"

"Yeah?" Tony asked, curious. "What is the end goal, here? 'Cause it seems like this mad scientist thing isn't going so well for you."

"I thought it was going alright," Lucas disagreed with an easygoing shrug. "I mean, you're all here, I managed to expose a bunch of people to the toxin, the town's burning, you all look useless. I was kind of hoping you'd be a little more destructive while you were trying to be heroic, but it looks like you managed to avoid that. That's a pity. But you've still got the 'useless' thing going on, so, all's not lost. Oh, and I told my hostages that this whole thing is your fault because you killed my family. I'm sure that'll trickle down into something useful. So it hasn't been a total loss. And I still haven't gotten to my last trick."

He abruptly stopped toying with the syringe, picking it up and aiming at his leg. "You know, the one where I turn myself into some kind of human flame thrower and torch this kid," he pointed at the youngest hostage, "in front of his family, and none of you can do anything to stop me because," he aimed the gun at the other child, "I'll shoot this one if you try." He jabbed the needle down into this thigh.

Bruce, who knew a thing or two about the dangers associated with testing things on yourself, blurted out, "Woah, I wouldn't do that, everyone's who's ever been exposed has had it transdermally. You don't know what injecting it straight into muscle will do, it could be too potent—"

Lucas, as had been the case all night, had no interest at all in listening to Bruce. "Shut up, Banner." Before anyone could act, Lucas depressed the top of the syringe.

Nothing happened. Which was entirely expected—being exposed to the Chitauri blood left no outward indications of exposure. Still, it seemed...anticlimactic.

For two or three seconds, Lucas stared at the Avengers, the look on his face shifting slowly from 'triumphant' to 'pained.' The Avengers stared back, waiting for him to make a move. Then, he lunged forward and grabbed the youngest kid's arm. The kid screamed, although from pain or surprise, no one could say. The others reacted by flinching away and crying out.

Steve, flanked by Thor and Natasha, moved towards the front of the room to take Lucas down just as Clint pulled out his bow and Tony fired a blast from his repulsor.

Tony missed, and Clint didn't get a shot, because Lucas suddenly froze, going completely stiff before keeling over.

He didn't move again.

Bruce reacted first, crossing the room and kneeling next to Lucas. He placed two fingers on Lucas's throat, feeling for a pulse. A moment later, he shook his head. "Dead. I think. He doesn't have a pulse, anyway."

"Yeah, Bruce, that usually means dead," Tony stated. "Although, zombies—"

Steve shot Tony a look. He'd heard Tony's thoughts on 'zombies' at length. "Tony. Really not the time." To the hostages, who were looking uncertainly between the Avengers and Lucas's body, he inquired, "Do you think you can make it back to town? There's paramedics there who can take a look at you."

"Do you think it's safe for them to just go?" Natasha asked. "I mean, that Russian guy is still around somewhere, they could run into him."

"I don't really think that's going to be an issue," said a heavily accented voice from the doorway. "Normal hostages are so...boring. They can go."

The Avengers turned to face the voice. The man in the doorway smirked. "Really, they can."

Requiring no further prompting, the hostages quickly collected themselves and left. Tony kept his repulsor trained on the Russian until they had made it out the door. And after. He wasn't feeling very friendly.

Once they'd gone, Clint, who was closest to the door, looked the man up and down before asking, "This your Russian, Banner?" He failed completely at keeping his irritation out of his voice. Just one fucking thing after another tonight, isn't it.

Bruce peered over the top of his glasses before pushing them up roughly. "Um, yeah. Yeah, it is."

"Now, Barton, is that any way to greet an old friend? And after we worked together so fruitfully..."

Clint froze. "How do you—"

"You wouldn't remember me, of course, but I remember you." As he was speaking, he entered the room, slowly, non-threatening. "You were so very useful back then, all devotion and eagerness to serve. Pity, really, how things turned out, you could have been so useful."

He sidled right up to Clint and breathed into his ear, so quiet that no one else could hear, "You know, he said he chose you because he knew it was what you wanted. You're a killer, Barton, it's just what you are." Casually, like he'd just been commenting on the weather, he meandered away, circling towards the front of the room.

Clint felt himself stiffen, the muscles in his back and neck tightening and rendering him immobile. That's not true, don't think about it, don't think about—

His chest began to tighten.

Wondering what the Russian had said that had caused Clint to go suddenly white, Steve commanded him, "Stop right there. Stay where you are. Don't take another step."

The Russian complied, coming to a halt roughly in the center of the room. "Certainly."

Tony had remained quiet long enough. "Okay, who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?

"My name is Nicholas Sadovsky, and I am here to pick up something that belongs to me. This idiot," he gestured towards Lucas's body with his foot, "Took something of mine that I would very much like to get back. Give it to me, and I'll leave you in peace. We'll all go our separate ways."

"Yeah, what's that?" Tony asked. "Your antipsychotics?"

"You are very funny, Stark." Sadovsky didn't sound amused. "But no. Those syringes of blood on the desk were not meant for his use."

"Oh? What are they for? Gonna give them to Loki? We know you're working for him, though God knows why, talk about crazy..."

Sadovsky smiled at Tony's accusation, but didn't answer. He just repeated, "Give me the syringes, and I'll go."

"Surely you jest," Thor declared, standing at his full height and looking thoroughly unimpressed. "What leverage could you possibly have to bargain for such a deal?"

"I think you'll find I'm very persuasive."

That seemed really sinister. Five out of six of the Avengers honed in on Sadovsky, prepared for whatever he was going to do.

The sixth was...distracted. Clint was trying to focus on the scene in front of him, but it was nearly impossible to hear anything over the sudden rushing of blood in his ears. And he was getting so dizzy, his breaths coming faster and faster...

Deep breaths, Barton, come on. This is not the time for this shit.

As always, berating himself did not have the desired effect. All he managed was a single harsh gasp before his chest tightened further.

Natasha whipped around to look at him. "Clint—"

The others shifted their eyes to the archer, and Sadovsky took advantage of their distraction to whip a gun out of his overcoat pocket. He pointed it straight at Bruce.

Who, seeing the gun, sighed and slumped his shoulders. "Really?"

Sadovsky shrugged. "I apologize. But it really is the most prudent plan. Certainly no one wants to provoke an 'incident,' with so many people out and about tonight. Your cooperation will benefit us all. Now, the syringes, please?" Bruce reluctantly took a step forward to pick them up. "No, not you. Don't move."

Bruce cocked his head to one side. "It has to be me. None of them can touch anything."

"Nice try, Banner, but I know that Barton wasn't exposed with the others. We nearly ran him down in the driveway. Come on Barton, get over here and lend a hand."

Clint didn't move. He was standing stock-still, staring at a point on the floor about ten feet in front of him. The trembling in his hands had become more pronounced. As they watched him, he took in another gasp of air and slowly clenched one fist.

Impatient, Sadovsky barked, "Barton, move it!"

Clint snapped his head up.

Sadovsky smirked. "There you go, Barton. Such a good little puppet, just waiting for someone to pull your strings."

That was, without a doubt, the exact wrong thing to say.

Moments before, panic had nearly set in entirely, freezing Clint's limbs, seizing his diaphragm and choking him. Panic, because he'd been reminded of Loki, of what he'd done under the demigod's thrall. Panic, because if he thought about it, that made it real, and he was a murderer and—

But then Sadovsky had drawn a gun on a man that Clint was quickly coming to consider a close friend. Sadovsky was threatening the safety of four of his other friends, plus the five hundred or so people who called this town home.

Then Sadovsky had topped it all of by taunting him and, well, that was just inadvisable.

Because Clint's temper had been just a little bit short, lately. Just a little bit. He'd been a little bit on edge, as it were. He'd recently gotten really bad at handling a lot of emotions. Boredom. Anxiety. Depression.

Anger. Especially anger.

So panic had been placed on the back burner—no, panic had been defenestrated, tossed out, crushed by the rage that flooded through him with Sadovsky's mocking words.

Clint clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grind against each other. Fucking bastard.

"Barton, I swear to God if you don't get over here, I'm going to shoot Banner for fun. Or maybe," he turned the gun on Natasha, "This could be a little more entertaining. For me, anyway."

It happened lightning-fast. Before Sadovsky could move, react, think, Clint had whipped a gun out of its holster on his leg. Quicker than a heartbeat, he'd squeezed off two shots. Sadovsky fell over with an inarticulate cry, clutching one knee—Clint had missed the other one (Nice fucking shooting, Barton, stellar work). Sadovsky didn't lose his grip on his gun, though, and as he landed he aimed it upwards, firing a single wild shot.

The bullet clipped Natasha's right arm, just below the shoulder. She staggered backwards, falling to one knee with a curse.

The next second, a fourth shot was fired and a bullet hole appeared in the middle of Sadovsky's forehead. He went limp, blood pouring from the wound into a puddle around him.

For several beats, everyone stood in shock, looking between Clint and the growing puddle of blood. Then, Natasha cursed again, and, snapped suddenly from their reverie, Steve and Bruce rushed to her side, trying to gauge the severity of her wound without accidentally igniting something.

Tony and Thor approached Clint, who was frozen in place, gun still raised.

"Barton," Thor prodded. Clint's eyes drifted towards him, unfocused. "Are you well?"

Clint's arms fell to his sides and the gun fell out of his grip. He wrapped his arms around himself briefly before reaching a hand up to massage his forehead. "I...think so."

But he wasn't, not really.

It wasn't the first time he'd killed someone—of course not, he was an assassin, it was his job. And Sadovsky had been a class-A bastard, definitely in need of killing. Clint didn't feel guilty about that. That asshole had threatened them all, had fucking shot Nat. He'd gotten what he'd deserved.

The problem was...that he hadn't thought about it, about pulling the trigger, about ending a life. He hadn't been in control of himself and he'd killed someone, except this time he couldn't blame Loki, couldn't blame mind control, couldn't blame magic.

It had just been him. And sure, this time it had been a bad guy on the receiving end of his loss of control, but who was to say that next time it wouldn't be someone who didn't deserve it? He was just a fucking liability, a horrific accident waiting to happen.

Vaguely, he became aware that Tony was talking. "...wish I could hug you or something right now because you deserve it and you really look like you need one, but I can't, so just know that I want to, okay? That was fucking amazing—"

"No."

"What do you mean, no? Barton, you—"

"I shouldn't have...I didn't think..." And the panic that he thought he had banished a mere minute ago came back in full force, making his legs feel weak and shaky.

You're never going to be in control, Barton, just give it up.

Oh, control. What a mystical fucking idea that was.

He found himself thinking, of all things, about his pills. How they had given him control, how if he could have had just one more he would have been okay, and this wouldn't have happened, and he could have focused and he wouldn't have snapped and killed someone

Again.

He let himself sink to his knees with something uncomfortably close to a frustrated sob. Because he knew all of that shit wasn't true, that the drugs were to blame in the first place, and using wasn't going to fix anything, ever, but it was what he wanted more than anything right now and what the fuck was wrong with him that this was all he could think about with everything else falling apart around him?

"Clint," Natasha said approaching slowly, cradling her arm against her chest, "What's wrong?"

Instead of responding, he just gestured vaguely around him, at the two dead bodies on the floor, at the window showing flames and smoke rising in the distance, at her injured arm, at himself.

"Just another day at the office, really," Bruce observed, stepping over to them. Clint huffed a laugh edged with hysteria. Bruce smiled and offered him a hand up which, after a second, Clint took.

Remaining upright proved too difficult, and he stumbled before catching himself and leaning against a desk. He shook his head, which utterly failed to clear the dizziness, the nausea, the headache, or the omnipresent feeling that he was falling off a cliff. He tried to pull it together, but when he spoke, his voice still shook. "I'm ready to get out of here."

The others were only too happy to oblige.


Before they could leave, they had to call in a cleanup team. This fell to Bruce, as he was the only one who could both touch a phone and make coherent conversation. The last couple of days had caught up with Clint in a bad way, and he had retreated into himself, refusing to acknowledge or even look at any of the others.

Fury was not impressed to hear that their mission had resulted in two dead bodies. Bruce had apologized, but had followed that up immediately by expressing the belief that "You can damn well deal with it, because we're sure as hell not."

"In my defense," Bruce had said, after hanging up, "I'm pretty tired."

But no one blamed him for being snippy.

At some point during the showdown, the biohazard response team had made it to the town, having stopped at the cabin to pick up the rest of the barrels. They were currently rounding up the exposed townspeople to take them into protective custody until the effects of the blood had worn off.

The Avengers slowly made their way towards them, pointedly ignoring the glares and whispers following their trek back across town. Natasha and Clint were at the front, with Clint staring at the ground and Natasha giving him a whispered lecture, or a pep talk, or both. The others were several yards behind.

"You know, we've got a pretty big problem," Tony muttered to his companions, out of earshot of Clint. At least, he hoped he was. But the archer didn't look up from whatever Natasha was telling him, so it seemed like he was in the clear.

"What's that?" Steve asked, resigned. He didn't really want to hear about another problem right now.

"With Sadovsky dead, we're never going to get a confession that he was working with Loki. That crazy bastard's going to go free."

Thor's eyes flashed at Tony's disrespect, but he (for once) didn't call the billionaire out. Instead, he said, "It is as you say. Perhaps the Allfather will take our word that Loki has been dishonest, but one does not enter into a bargain such as that which was struck lightly. I fear it cannot be broken."

"We'll deal with that when we have to. If we have to." Steve shook his head. "I'd really hoped we were done with that guy."

Tony snorted. "You and me both, Cap. So, Thor, any ideas what your brother's going to do with his newfound freedom? World domination, maybe, or does he not like to repeat himself?"

"My brother is not predictable, Stark. But I am...worried. If he truly did plan all of this, then what else could he have planned?"

"I don't know," Bruce said, "But if he managed to come up with this while he was busy trying to take over the world, I'd hate to see what he's come up with while he was in prison."

They considered that in silence for the rest of their walk.


In the end, Steve, Tony, Natasha, and Thor allowed themselves to be taken into protective custody along with the townspeople. Tony thought it would be better if Stark Tower didn't burn to the ground, and when his personal property was involved, he could get pretty demanding. The others acquiesced, if only to quiet his complaining, although Natasha was clearly reluctant to leave Clint.

Clint was being difficult, initially not allowing himself to be taken in by the paramedics despite showing clear signs of smoke inhalation and having a large second degree burn on his arm. Natasha talked some sense into him and struck a bargain with the paramedics so that Clint could be airlifted from the hospital to SHIELD as soon as he'd been treated.

Bruce accompanied him in the ambulance, explaining the situation to the paramedics and, later, the doctors. For his part, Clint had fallen into an alternatively angry, brooding, or anxious silence from which he could not be shaken.

The doctors had wanted to keep Clint for at least a day, taking note of his alarming vitals, but when they told him as much, he'd gotten combative. Bruce advised them to let Clint sign out 'against medical advice,' assuring them that Agent Barton would be headed to SHIELD's medical facility as soon as they arrived back in New York. Reluctantly, they let him go. The hospital held up its end of the bargain, and by 8:00 AM, Clint and Bruce were taking the short helicopter ride to SHIELD's headquarters.

The official debriefing wasn't going to be for a couple of days, at least, not until the others were no longer in danger of igniting everything in their paths, but shortly after landing, Clint got a message summoning him to see the director.

He figured this meeting was going to have almost nothing to do with the mission.

With a sigh, he headed down to the locker room, loading all of his gear back into his locker. Then he headed for the showers. If he was about to be arrested or fired, he thought it would be nice to look a little less...grimy.

An hour after arriving back at base, Clint found himself pacing outside Fury's office, the director's secretary shooting him a look that registered somewhere between "concerned" and "disgusted."

News travels fast. Apparently she's not a fan of drug addicts. Or rogue agents. Or drug addicted rogue agents.

At 10:01 exactly, the secretary said, "The director will see you now, Agent Barton."

As he walked through the door into Fury's office, Clint was thinking two things.

First, he kind of hoped that he wasn't going to jail. Fired, he might be able to deal with, but jail...not so much.

Second, it was now after 10 AM, and he was overdue for his next dose. Whatever Fury was going to do—fire him, arrest him, whatever—Clint hoped he'd be quick about it.


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