Thought I might post something today. :) Nice big trigger warning for depression, self harm (Fairly graphic), misuse of alcohol (Like, not alcoholism, this is just a one-time thing, not a consistent pattern), and mentions of past suicide attempt. Seriously, I put Clint through hell here and it ain't gonna be pretty. If this is a problem, don't read. I'll put a brief synopsis at the end of this chapter again with the important plot points.
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Chapter 7:
He had good days. A lot of good days. But, every once in a while, He just had really shit days. Sometimes he got some warning, and other days he just woke up and knew it was gonna be a day.
Usually he could just text Phil, and he'd be able to stay in bed, regretting his existence. But once Natasha came.... that changed things. He had to make sure she ate, that she took her medicine (They found that, just like him, she did better on medication than off. The mood stabilizers they had her on were helping her have far less panic attacks). And, above all, he had to be THERE for her. Ever since he actually sat in on a therapy session (At her request), he realized just how much she needed this second chance. How similar they were. Only she had been stronger than him, at least in one aspect: She had never taken a blade to her skin. She had done her own form of self-destructing. She ran into open fire, didn't really make an effort to come BACK from her missions. But still, she was strong enough to leave her skin unblemished, unwounded.
It grated on him, how far down the rabbit hole he'd once fallen. And so, when he woke up on that Wednesday, he knew it was gonna be a day from hell. He texted Phil, and buried himself in his bed. At least until he heard Natasha screaming. He groaned, getting up to check on her. He walked into her room, seeing her trembling and cuddling the bear. She always had that bear, but it wasn't exactly a bad thing. As long as he was around to keep people from making fun of her.
"What was it about this time?" He asked softly. She shook her head. "Okay. You need a minute?" She nodded. It had been a bit of an uphill battle for her to even come to him at first. And she nearly put a knife in him when he had suggested she try protection. But after he had gotten Maria Hill involved and she had pulled the "I'm assistant director" card, Natasha had conceded. With poor grace, and cursing in Russian.
Clint left her to clean up, and went back to his bed to hide from the world. Natasha knocked on the door once she was done, and he slowly poked his head out of his nest. "Need my meds," She said shyly. He nodded, dragging his heels.
Natasha, ever the spy, noticed his change. "Are you okay?" She finally asked. He shrugged. "Maybe you can go to therapy in my place."
"Nice try," He muttered. "Grab me the cereal?" She stuck out her tongue and grabbed Clint his fruity pebbles and her box of frosted cheerios. Clint fixed them their medicine and grabbed the jug of milk from the fridge. Phil walked in then.
"Wow, you got out of bed," He said, clearly impressed. Natasha gave Clint a look.
"You're not telling me the truth," She growled.
"Fine. Phil is gonna take you to therapy today. I'm not feeling good," He said, poking his cereal.
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Chapter 7:
He had good days. A lot of good days. But, every once in a while, He just had really shit days. Sometimes he got some warning, and other days he just woke up and knew it was gonna be a day.
Usually he could just text Phil, and he'd be able to stay in bed, regretting his existence. But once Natasha came.... that changed things. He had to make sure she ate, that she took her medicine (They found that, just like him, she did better on medication than off. The mood stabilizers they had her on were helping her have far less panic attacks). And, above all, he had to be THERE for her. Ever since he actually sat in on a therapy session (At her request), he realized just how much she needed this second chance. How similar they were. Only she had been stronger than him, at least in one aspect: She had never taken a blade to her skin. She had done her own form of self-destructing. She ran into open fire, didn't really make an effort to come BACK from her missions. But still, she was strong enough to leave her skin unblemished, unwounded.
It grated on him, how far down the rabbit hole he'd once fallen. And so, when he woke up on that Wednesday, he knew it was gonna be a day from hell. He texted Phil, and buried himself in his bed. At least until he heard Natasha screaming. He groaned, getting up to check on her. He walked into her room, seeing her trembling and cuddling the bear. She always had that bear, but it wasn't exactly a bad thing. As long as he was around to keep people from making fun of her.
"What was it about this time?" He asked softly. She shook her head. "Okay. You need a minute?" She nodded. It had been a bit of an uphill battle for her to even come to him at first. And she nearly put a knife in him when he had suggested she try protection. But after he had gotten Maria Hill involved and she had pulled the "I'm assistant director" card, Natasha had conceded. With poor grace, and cursing in Russian.
Clint left her to clean up, and went back to his bed to hide from the world. Natasha knocked on the door once she was done, and he slowly poked his head out of his nest. "Need my meds," She said shyly. He nodded, dragging his heels.
Natasha, ever the spy, noticed his change. "Are you okay?" She finally asked. He shrugged. "Maybe you can go to therapy in my place."
"Nice try," He muttered. "Grab me the cereal?" She stuck out her tongue and grabbed Clint his fruity pebbles and her box of frosted cheerios. Clint fixed them their medicine and grabbed the jug of milk from the fridge. Phil walked in then.
"Wow, you got out of bed," He said, clearly impressed. Natasha gave Clint a look.
"You're not telling me the truth," She growled.
"Fine. Phil is gonna take you to therapy today. I'm not feeling good," He said, poking his cereal.
Natasha whimpered. "No, not without you," she declared. It was hard enough to go with Clint: without him was damn near impossible.
"Natasha-"
"I said no!"
Clint groaned. He couldn't stand the thought of facing the world, of putting on a mask and dealing with the utter feelingof despair and self-loathing. One look at Phil though, and it was decided.
"I'll call Seth. You look like you need it," he said. Clint rolled his eyes.
"I'm fine. We went through this before without him."
"And we didn't have another person we had to take care of before either," he answered evenly. Natasha, at this point, was pouring and refusing to eat. "Come on Natasha, you need to eat."
"No. Not until someone tells me what the hell is going on," she demanded. Clint gave Phil a pleading look, but the agent stayed firm and shook his head.
"It's not my place to tell her."
Natasha turned her glare soley on Clint now, and he growled. There was a REASON he stayed in bed on these days: everything grated on him. Even Natasha, who in his defense hadn't said anything about some of the fresher scars on his arms, the marks on his legs when they went to the lap pool. The last relapse was right before they sent him after Natasha. Like literally, Phil patched him up on the plane to Russia.
After what was probably the most stressful breakfast and morning routine, Phil lead the two grumps down to the infirmary. All he had to say was they better be prepared for hell.
Natasha see's the doctors and tries to run, only for CLINT to grab her, ignoring her screams of protest. Really, even he wasn't this combative this far along! Then again he'd never been dealt the hand she had. He sits her in the room, and she glares at him, until the doctor walks in. She sighs, seeing that it was going to be a day.
"Would you like to paint?" She offered. Natasha nods, just once, and barely noticeable, but the lady knows enough. Today they're going to use finger paints, and a sheet of paper is set in front of Clint too, with a wink. She pulls out the paints and let's them go at it.
Unsurprisingly, the pictures end up gory and grotesque. Natasha's page is smeared with red and brown, broken bits of white here or there. She claims violence as her muse.
Clint's picture is death and darkness. The whole thing covered in gray's and black, the only other color being a tiny trail of red. The doctor doesn't push, but begins working with Natasha more, and so Clint decides to sneak out and find solace elsewhere. Actually, once he catches the date on the gigantic info board in the hall, he knows exactly what he's going to do. He goes back to his place and grabs his keys and wallet, and a very special drawstring bag. He then heads to the garage and hops in his car. He drives until he sees a grocery store.
He heads to the liquor isle, buying as much booze as he can carry (it's just two six packs, but he grabs a bottle of whiskey too). He takes it to the front, ignoring the looks of the people around him. He then drives to the only place he can think of to do this; the park.
There's a nice pond, lots of ducks and birds. Even a few squirrels chasing each other. He takes the first six pack with him, and the whiskey. He can't do it sober. Never been able to. Maybe that's how Phil managed to get him to stop.
Doesn't matter. He drinks. And drinks. Until, at last, he's feeling a bit of a buzz. He takes a swig from the whisky, gags, and promptly smashes the beer bottle on the bench. He can't take it anymore.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
TRIGGER WARNING FROM HERE DOWN:
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He starts delicately. Picks up the biggest shard, gripping it with a practiced ease, and slowly drags it down his arm. A tiny bit of blood flows, and he does it again. And again. Until he sees a tiny pair of hands on top of his, and hears Phil talking gently to him.
"....Tasha, hand me the blue bag," he says. "Clint, we talked about this, remember? You're supposed to come tell me."
"Sorry boss," he slurs. "Didn't want to be a burden. 'Specially since Barney-"
"Damnit," Phil swore. Natasha sighed, taking the bloody arm in her hands.
"Clint, this isn't a way to deal with your problems," she said gently,
"How'd you know? Perfect skin," he tries to sneer, but it comes out more slurred and helpless than he wants.
"Not all of it," she says, lifting her shirt to reveal her stomach, revealing several scars around her belly button. "It's amazing how far a body can go to protect itself."
"Clint, we're going home and you're going to bed," Phil said firmly. "And you're going to counseling tomorrow." Clint stuck his tongue out, but handed over the keys to his car. Natasha is the one who takes them. Phil takes him to his own vehicle, digging out a first aid kit. Clint falls asleep before he finishes.
* * * *
The next time Clint opens his eyes, he's back in his room. He groans as everything comes crashing back down on him: The date, the drinking, the cutting.... Phil... Tasha.... Damn. He rubs his temples and fishes around for a glass of water he's sure his fiance has left. He finds that and the bottle of Advil, popping two in his mouth before gulping down the glass of water. With that momentary satisfaction, he let's himself fall back into a dreamless sleep.
* * * *
He's vaguely aware of two things the next time he wakes up. One, Tasha is in bed with him, and two, they're both wet. She's whimpering, and he looks down to see her sleeping form. She's the reason he's all wet, but it's not like it's the first or the last time it'll happen. He sighs, feeling his own bladder throb. Before he can take care of it though, she screams. waking herself up in the process. He sighed and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder to steady her.
"M'sorry!" She chokes out, her breath hitching. He gently picks her up and takes her to the kitchen, placing her on the counter. He's not surprised to see Phil asleep on the couch. He takes out the medicine she takes when she has a panic attack, and hands her that and a glass of water. She chugs it down, and they stare at each other. Clint's doing a bit of a potty-dance, while she shifts in her soaked clothes. "Pinkie Bear?" She asks. He nods, but as he turns to leave his bladder gives in, and suddenly all that can be heard is the hissing of his piss against his clothes. Natasha quickly hops up, rushing to his side, hugging him despite his state. He blushes and closes his eyes, trying to pretend this isn't happening. And suddenly Phil is there too, and this feels like that night so long ago he was brought in...
* * *
"Hey kid," The agent says. Clint's trying so hard to get away, knows that any lapse in time and they'll find him, and probably kill him. Though this guy doesn't look much better than the circus freaks after him.
"Listen Mister, I think you got the wrong fella," He says, a clearly country twang mixing with the words.
"Nope, You're the man," He says gently. "You willing to talk?"
Clint shifts nervously. He doesn't want to die, doesn't want to lose ground, but something about this guy seems to emit safety, and shelter. Something he hasn't felt in a long time. "Yeah, okay," He relents, though the nervous dancing from foot to foot doesn't stop.
"You were quite a big help with that sting back there," The guy says. "Wouldn't have been able to stop those guys without your aim."
"Yeah, I guess," Clint mumbles. It's then that Phil realizes the dance for what it is.
"Listen, I've got a deal for you kid," He says. "You give up this hit and run business, and use that bow for something good. We can use a guy like you."
"Yeah yeah, that's what they all say," Clint hisses. "Then it's either beat the kid or turn him loose to fend for himself again. Ya know, you stupid people really oughta-" Clint stops, and suddenly there's a slow patter and a shining below the kids feet. Even in the dark, Phil sees the blush on his cheeks. He knows what's happened, and he genuinely feels bad for him.
He waits for Clint to finish, before he finally explains fully. "I'm with the government. We call ourselves SHIELD. We need a good marksman like you, and from the looks of things right now, we can offer you a safe cover, and protect you. You'd get a salary, three square meals a day, and your own living quarters. Access to a practice range, and more updated weapons too."
"The bow stays," Clint mumbles. "And you really want some stupid baby who just pissed themselves?"
"Yes, because said baby brought down an entire mafia, and the ones who are threatening you aren't going to be able to do so for much longer." Clint hesitates, before nodding. He figures it's what Barney would want him to do.
* * *
"So yesterday was the anniversary of your brother's death?" Natasha asked. Clint nods slowly, blowing his nose as The Little Mermaid plays in the background.
"He killed himself you know," He sniffles. "I couldn't... He was all I had and then he went and did it and I..." He tries to fight the tears in his eyes but Natasha hugs him.
"It's okay. You don't have to be strong," She says, handing him the bear. "I tried, you know, before you caught me." Clint looks at her through tear-blurred vision. "Some douche bag made me puke up all the pills and then sent me after someone, and then you caught me instead."
Clint nodded. "M'sorry Tasha. You didn't.... You didn't deserve to see-"
"Hush you idiot. It's only fair that if I share my weakness, you share yours." Clint nods, and that's how they stay. That's how he decides he made the right call that night. How he knows his brother is proud of him. Somehow he just knows.
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FOR THOSE WHO CHOSE TO SKIP: Clint has a really bad day that turns into a really bad night. Natasha comforts him, and then they watch the Little Mermaid.
"Clint, we're going home and you're going to bed," Phil said firmly. "And you're going to counseling tomorrow." Clint stuck his tongue out, but handed over the keys to his car. Natasha is the one who takes them. Phil takes him to his own vehicle, digging out a first aid kit. Clint falls asleep before he finishes.
* * * *
The next time Clint opens his eyes, he's back in his room. He groans as everything comes crashing back down on him: The date, the drinking, the cutting.... Phil... Tasha.... Damn. He rubs his temples and fishes around for a glass of water he's sure his fiance has left. He finds that and the bottle of Advil, popping two in his mouth before gulping down the glass of water. With that momentary satisfaction, he let's himself fall back into a dreamless sleep.
* * * *
He's vaguely aware of two things the next time he wakes up. One, Tasha is in bed with him, and two, they're both wet. She's whimpering, and he looks down to see her sleeping form. She's the reason he's all wet, but it's not like it's the first or the last time it'll happen. He sighs, feeling his own bladder throb. Before he can take care of it though, she screams. waking herself up in the process. He sighed and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder to steady her.
"M'sorry!" She chokes out, her breath hitching. He gently picks her up and takes her to the kitchen, placing her on the counter. He's not surprised to see Phil asleep on the couch. He takes out the medicine she takes when she has a panic attack, and hands her that and a glass of water. She chugs it down, and they stare at each other. Clint's doing a bit of a potty-dance, while she shifts in her soaked clothes. "Pinkie Bear?" She asks. He nods, but as he turns to leave his bladder gives in, and suddenly all that can be heard is the hissing of his piss against his clothes. Natasha quickly hops up, rushing to his side, hugging him despite his state. He blushes and closes his eyes, trying to pretend this isn't happening. And suddenly Phil is there too, and this feels like that night so long ago he was brought in...
* * *
"Hey kid," The agent says. Clint's trying so hard to get away, knows that any lapse in time and they'll find him, and probably kill him. Though this guy doesn't look much better than the circus freaks after him.
"Listen Mister, I think you got the wrong fella," He says, a clearly country twang mixing with the words.
"Nope, You're the man," He says gently. "You willing to talk?"
Clint shifts nervously. He doesn't want to die, doesn't want to lose ground, but something about this guy seems to emit safety, and shelter. Something he hasn't felt in a long time. "Yeah, okay," He relents, though the nervous dancing from foot to foot doesn't stop.
"You were quite a big help with that sting back there," The guy says. "Wouldn't have been able to stop those guys without your aim."
"Yeah, I guess," Clint mumbles. It's then that Phil realizes the dance for what it is.
"Listen, I've got a deal for you kid," He says. "You give up this hit and run business, and use that bow for something good. We can use a guy like you."
"Yeah yeah, that's what they all say," Clint hisses. "Then it's either beat the kid or turn him loose to fend for himself again. Ya know, you stupid people really oughta-" Clint stops, and suddenly there's a slow patter and a shining below the kids feet. Even in the dark, Phil sees the blush on his cheeks. He knows what's happened, and he genuinely feels bad for him.
He waits for Clint to finish, before he finally explains fully. "I'm with the government. We call ourselves SHIELD. We need a good marksman like you, and from the looks of things right now, we can offer you a safe cover, and protect you. You'd get a salary, three square meals a day, and your own living quarters. Access to a practice range, and more updated weapons too."
"The bow stays," Clint mumbles. "And you really want some stupid baby who just pissed themselves?"
"Yes, because said baby brought down an entire mafia, and the ones who are threatening you aren't going to be able to do so for much longer." Clint hesitates, before nodding. He figures it's what Barney would want him to do.
* * *
"So yesterday was the anniversary of your brother's death?" Natasha asked. Clint nods slowly, blowing his nose as The Little Mermaid plays in the background.
"He killed himself you know," He sniffles. "I couldn't... He was all I had and then he went and did it and I..." He tries to fight the tears in his eyes but Natasha hugs him.
"It's okay. You don't have to be strong," She says, handing him the bear. "I tried, you know, before you caught me." Clint looks at her through tear-blurred vision. "Some douche bag made me puke up all the pills and then sent me after someone, and then you caught me instead."
Clint nodded. "M'sorry Tasha. You didn't.... You didn't deserve to see-"
"Hush you idiot. It's only fair that if I share my weakness, you share yours." Clint nods, and that's how they stay. That's how he decides he made the right call that night. How he knows his brother is proud of him. Somehow he just knows.
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FOR THOSE WHO CHOSE TO SKIP: Clint has a really bad day that turns into a really bad night. Natasha comforts him, and then they watch the Little Mermaid.
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