Title: High (All The Time)

Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I own nothing :( I don't have, nor do I know anyone with, narcolepsy/cataplexy. Everything here is a result of what little research I was able to scrounge off the 'net and a huge dose of creative license. Apologies for anything I got wrong, and no offence is intended in any way.

Summary: It was an all-too-easy decision, that flick of a switch to block out the sounds of yelling and fighting from nearby, and, despite turning his hearing aids off in the midst of battle being a terribly flawed plan, right then he didn't give a damn. Clint's low on meds and short on time when the Avengers are called out to battle Doombots. His day can't get any worse, right? ...Wrong. Narcoleptic!Clint

Author's Notes: Sequel to Catch Me (As I Fall), and part of the Sleeping Beauty 'verse. Trigger warnings for blood, illness, self harm and drug use. Clint's a mess. Sorry!

Chapter 2: Desperate Measures

Clint had discovered pretty early on in his unwilling journey with narcolepsy and cataplexy that his brain always woke up a short time before his body did. It was a less than fun feeling - being conscious of everything going on around him, yet unable to move or speak - but it no longer caused him an epic freak out like it had in the very beginning.

Except it did mean he was painfully aware of the fact that Natasha was suddenly in the restroom with him. Was, in fact, kneeling on the scummy, stained floor alongside his supine body, instead of out there watching Thor and Captain America's six, where he thought he'd left her.

Shit.

With his ears not currently working any better than the rest of him, Barton could only watch as Nat called his name again and again, her beautiful face twisted with concern even as she swept deft fingers over the back of his head, his neck, down his body and over his legs; checking his pulse and looking for the cause of his unceremonious collapse. Or maybe just the reason for him abandoning his post evac'ing civilians.

The redhead's face darkened at the discovery of his bloodied knuckles, but just as she reached for the comms in her ear to call in the team for backup, Clint felt life return to his body.

It was like someone had finally remembered to flip an important switch. Cataplexy: off.

"Nat?"

"Clint!"

Lipreading was a skill he'd picked up pretty early on in life. He'd had no choice, seeing as he'd been deaf a lot longer than he'd been...whatever he was now. But the angry russian Natasha was suddenly spitting at him as she continued to run her hands over his form, looking for some sort of debilitating injury, would've been impossible to follow even if his ears were working perfectly and he wasn't laying on a freezing cold floor.

Tapping half-heartedly at his ears and shaking his head, Clint put in the minimum effort needed to sit himself up, ignoring the exhaustion that weighed down every single cell in his body and snaked through his brain like a poisonous fog; the way the room spun around him.

*What happened?* Nat signed, making sure she had his full attention.

Clint scowled, not bothering to sign back with his busted hand, instead reaching up to slowly drag his hearing aids out, one after the other. "Something messed up my ears," he lied, making sure the words came out louder and more shaky than was strictly necessary. "Electrical feedback from the Doombots, maybe? I dunno, Nat, but it knocked me for six. Is everyone okay?"

Romanoff nodded, quick to assuage his fears that something had gone wrong while he was AWOL, eyes softening as she took the perfectly working aids from him and slipped them into a back pocket. He'd have to find a way to get them back before she gave them to Stark to mess with.

Holding out an arm, Nat dragged him up to his feet.

*We were worried,* she signed with a pointed glare once he'd found his balance. *You didn't respond to our comms check.*

Scanning their immediate surroundings with distaste, Natasha paused on the shattered mirror, eyes travelling down to Clint's still bleeding knuckles, and then over to the empty bottle of pills sitting conspicuously in the middle of the cracked porcelain sink.

*Clint?*

"I couldn't get them out quick enough. Felt like they were about to fry my brain." Barton offered his best attempt at a self-deprecating grin. "I might have taken my frustrations out on the poor mirror."

Nat rolled her eyes at that, grabbing the wrist of his injured hand and tugging him closer so she could look him straight in the eyes.

"And the pills?"

She didn't bother signing that time around, but Clint was close enough to her mouth that he couldn't even pretend to not understand.

"Pills?" He kept his voice steady, refusing to flinch away from the intense gaze being directed at him. "Not mine. They were there when I got here."

Unless there were hidden cameras in the restroom, no one would be able to prove otherwise. Clint had made sure of that by scraping the incriminating label off when he'd first laid hands on the bottle of contraband. Sure, his brain might be a little more scrambled than usual, but he was still almost certain Nat hadn't been there when he'd dry swallowed the meagre handful of crumbs he'd had in his palm.

There was almost too long a pause as Nat let his words linger in the space between them.

Clint steadfastly refused to blink, to yawn, locking his knees so they wouldn't even consider giving out on him again, even as the exhaustion he'd been trying to burn away with an ill-advised, almost negligible dose of his meds left him weak and trembling. When the silence dragged on even longer, the archer found himself hastily concocting a plan on how to disable his teammate, his best friend, if he needed to make a break for it.

Nat took a step back, finally putting some distance between them, and Clint felt his heart skip several beats at her unreadable expression, suddenly wishing he still had his bow in his hands.

"C'mon," she finally relented, her face transforming back into the warmly exasperated expression she usually wore around him. "Let's go get that hand looked at, дурак."

She believed him.

The relief he felt was almost enough to send him back to the floor in a crumpled heap, but Clint refused to succumb. Grabbing his bow and quiver from the corner where he'd thrown it, he forced one foot in front of the other, exiting the restroom first.

Nat was suddenly right next to him, slinging one arm through his and guiding him gently in the direction of wherever Steve and the others must have been waiting. As if she didn't trust him enough to make it there in one piece.

The fingers of her free hand stayed buried inside her pocket, where they were wrapped tightly around the empty pill bottle that Clint thought she hadn't seen him leave in the sink before his unexpected collapse...

Notes: дурак - durak, fool.