Part I
Clint hated calling it depression, like the doctors kept saying. Because that sounded incapacitating, and God knows Clint didn’t have that. No, he preferred the term high-functioning emptiness, a phase he’d coined, in his own head, a long time ago. And yes, he knows it sounds stupid, but it’s the only way he knew how to describe it.
Because Clint could still work when the fog rolled in— he could still fight, he could still attend briefings and meetings with the team, and he could still talk to everyone like he was really okay. It was just something subtle that would change, and some days it was bigger, and some days he could forget it was there entirely. And sometimes that would go on for months, and he almost forgot what it felt like to feel entirely empty. Those were the good times.
These were the bad times.
It felt as if a stone was settled in his stomach, weighing him to the floor like a ton of bricks. Everything around him was dull or blurry, and he didn’t have it in him to focus on anything. He excused himself from breakfast early.
And he knew, he knew what was happening but he just didn’t have any time to slow the fall. He’d taken himself to a doctor years ago, to find out if there really were bees rattling about inside. They were helpful for a while, giving him these pills called antidepressants (even though he still refused to call it depression) and he even attended a few therapy sessions.
But after some time he’d realized that he’s the only one who knows himself, not the doctors who claim to. He’s the only one who can manage his own symptoms, and while the pills helped keep him on his feet, he knew that in the end it needed to be him alone, not these strangers, fixing himself.
And for the most part, he did a great job. Him and the sertraline. So when he finally made his way off the pills, he was able to really stand on his own two feet, and balance the symptoms— and his lifestyle.
But where there were good days, there were bad days, too. And sometimes the bad days got so bad he though he could’ve been dying.
He’d decided to ignore the increasing frequency of the bad days.
He made his way to the shooting range, and swiftly picked up the compact bow and practice arrows. The weapon fit perfectly in his hands, like another appendage that was always meant to be there. He exhaled slowly, and then stepped up to the railing.
In one fluid motion, he pulled back the drawstring and released, hitting the mark with ease. He just never seemed to miss.
An hour went by. Practice arrows littered the center of every bullseye on the course; he’d run through every setting at least once.
Suddenly JARVIS’s hologram started to type in front of him, and it was only then that he realized he forgot his hearing aids in his room. Funny. Usually he finds a way to remember those.
Tony Stark is calling for a meeting in the Stark office in forty-five minutes, JARVIS typed.
Clint didn’t even have it in him to respond, so he just waited for the hologram to fade so he could start shooting again. It’s the only thing that could make him feel at home these days.
Forty minutes passed, and another alert from JARVIS blinked in front of him.
—
Clint sat through the meeting as Tony drowned on and on— about some anonymous tips they’ve been getting, and about some sort of beginning of a mission they might be asked to take on. Clint had remembered to grab his hearing aids from his room, but at this rate he almost wished he hadn’t.
“Barton? You there?” Tony’s voice snapped him out of his head.
“Yep. Right here.”
“Coulson said you could be needed for stage three,” Tony went on. “And for tracking.”
“Okay.”
Tony looked at him funny for a moment, then nodded and continued on. Another thirty minutes passed, but Clint couldn’t find it in himself to pay attention. His mind wandered, but he wasn’t really thinking about anything.
And then soon they were dismissed, and most filed out of the office, chattering excitedly. Because this was exciting— they’d be needed, finally, after a month or two of leisure.
But Clint couldn’t feel that excitement.
So he stayed sitting at the table for a while, and waited while the rest of them cleared the room. His eyes stayed fixed on the presentation, until the screen locked and the window turned a dull shade of blue.
“You shouldn’t still be here.”
Clint jumped, whipping his neck around to find Tony, leaning against the wall near his computer.
“Jesus,” Clint muttered.
“Come on, buddy. What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up,” he said. “Just taking it in.”
“Oh, really?” Tony tapped his pen on the desk, then flicked it across the keyboard.
“Yeah. Swear, I’m fine.”
Tony was silent, and Clint shifted.
Tony bit his lip, but stayed quiet while he thought about how to respond.
Then, he sighed. “Listen, Clint,” he murmured. “I’m only talking to you because Natasha thought something might be up.”
Clint glanced up. “Huh?”
“Natasha.“
“Yeah, I know. What did she say?”
“Not much,” Tony said, shrugging. “Just that you were acting different.”
“What does that mean?”
“You tell me.”
Clint’s stomach turned, and he felt the lump in his throat grow. He felt frustrated. He hated the look on Tony’s face— it was too sympathetic, too understanding. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t need it.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, standing up. “I’m going upstairs.”
Tony looked like he was going to protest, but then shut his mouth and let Clint push through the double glass doors and walk out.
—
Clint stood in front of Natasha’s room, uncertain. He knocked tentatively, half-expecting nobody to be there. Something in his stomach still felt sick.
After a minute the door opened, and Natasha stood there in the frame, watching Clint with that careful eye he knew too well.
He thought she looked kind of tired.
“You talked to Tony,” Clint said. “That’s what he said.”
Natasha raised her eyebrows. “And he talked to you?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t think he’d do anything.”
“Well, he did.”
Clint pushed past her, then flopped down on her couch. It was warm and soft, and he pulled a blanket over himself as he rested his head on the armrest.
“Make yourself at home,” she said sarcastically, and shut the door. The jab was weak. She moved to the table behind the couch, organizing the papers there and turning off the lamp.
Clint turned, stretching his neck so he could see what she was working on.
“Did I interrupt something?” he asked.
“Not really,” she murmured. “Briefing papers. Nothing we really need to know.”
He nodded, then turned his head back to the black television screen.
It was kind of like old times, he thought. Just them together. It made him feel a little better.
“Turn on the tv,” he said. She rolled her eyes and picked up the remote.
“Please,” she scolded. Clint almost laughed. Almost.
After a while she sat down, lifting up his legs and sliding under them. She pulled his blanket over her, and she heard a low grumble.
“Blanket-hog,” she frowned. “Gimme.”
There was a little game of blanket tug of war until they found a middle ground. She picked up the remote control again, and then started scrolling.
“What do you wanna watch?” she asked him.
“I dunno,” he said. “Somethin’ funny.”
“Alright.” She flipped to the comedy channel, and then sat back. It was nice and quiet for a while, save for the talking on the tv, and everything just felt calm. Clint kind of wanted to shut his eyes and stay there forever.
“You okay?” He heard Natasha’s voice finally. He blinked his eyes open, and met hers.
“Yeah.”
She was quiet, as if waiting for him to say something else.
He bit his lip, resting his head back until it hit the armrest. “No.”
Natasha sighed, clicking the remote control until the sound was below 5.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” he muttered, and lifted his hands up to rub his temples.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” he huffed. “I don’t know what I want to do.”
“Well, I’m here if you need me.”
“I know.” He swallowed. “I know you are.”
More silence.
“Why’d you tell Tony?” he asked her. “Actually, what did you tell Tony?”
She hesitated.
“You’re good at hiding it,” she said carefully. “But that doesn’t mean you have to deal with it alone.”
He felt his eyes narrow. “And what do you think it is, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “But I know that something is up.”
“Oh, you can just tell, can you,” he growled. “You just know me that well, huh?” He was angry, an he didn’t bother to stop to remember the reason.
“Why are you acting like this?” Natasha snapped. “I want to help you. I’m on your side.”
“I don’t need anyone on my side,” he said angrily.
“Oh, you don’t?” she pushed his legs off of her, so he scrambled to an upright position on the couch. He watched as she walked briskly towards her kitchen. “You are so difficult.”
“You never answered my fucking question,” he shouted, throwing his head back. “Why did you talk to Tony?”
“Because I’m— I’m worried about you, Clint!” she hissed, stepping back into the living room. “Nobody else can see, but I can. Nobody else can see how in your own head you are, and I just don’t know what to do about it.”
Clint stayed quiet, staring. She sounded angry, but her words were scared. She looked scared— and for a master assassin, that takes a lot. Uncertainty twisted in his gut.
“Look. I want to help you, but I don’t know what to do. I hardly even know what is wrong. So while I figure that out, I told Tony to keep his eye on you... make sure you’re safe, when I can’t.”
Instead of the familiar frustration and anger he’s used to, he just kind of felt bad. He didn’t like it, but it didn’t make him mad like before.
His words caught in his throat when he tried to reply.
“I work so hard,” he whispered, raw. “At balancing my family, at balancing this,” he pointed at his head. “At work, at keeping myself sharp— at everything.” His voice wavered. “I guess sometimes the old brain can’t keep up.”
“You don’t have to do that all alone.”
Clint sighed, shutting his eyes tight. “It’s not pretty,” he said weakly. “When I go down. It’s not pretty.”
“I’ve seen uglier,” she shrugged, voice light despite the conversation.
A ghost of a smile formed on his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you have.”
Clint found himself wanting to laugh. This was so fucking sad.
Everything about this was sad. He was a father who wasn’t allowed to see his family half of the year. He was an avenger who couldn’t keep his own head screwed on right. He was a man in a city full of people, in a building full of friends and support, who still felt alone.
So instead of laughing, he started crying.
Because he knows, God, he knows that Natasha cares about him. He knows she’d do anything for him, and he knows that it hurts her to see a friend down like this.
He knows that his friends, they all care about him even if they couldn’t find the words to say it. Especially if the couldn’t find the words to say it.
The sting of salty tears was almost unfamiliar in his eyes. He doesn’t remember the last time he cried.
But God, he was now, and he couldn’t make it stop. He wiped under his eyes constantly, but the tears just replaced themselves, and he found himself wanting to give up the fight. Wanting to give in entirely.
Natasha didn’t say anything. But she was there, next to him, and her presence alone was enough for him. He loved her for that.
It felt as if he were being torn apart. By one, his love and appreciation for life and living and the people in this world, and two, the strength and pull of the darkness that he felt like only he’s witnessing. Because he’s seen so much black in his life, so many deaths, and so much irreversible destruction and incapacitating fear, that he’s not sure he knows what’s real anymore.
But he’s also seen so much good, and so much heart.
He felt as if he were being torn apart. But maybe he needs to break before he can be stitched back together.
—
He woke up in Natasha’s bed, blinking open his blurry eyes. Light streamed into the room, onto the white comforter he was beneath. He kind of wanted to melt back into the sheets.
He rolled over, still nearly half-asleep, then jumped. She was staring at him intently, sitting in a chair next to the bed.
“What are you doing?” he muttered, sitting up and pulling the blankets over himself. He wasn’t naked, but he still felt exposed.
“Waiting for you to wake up,” Natasha shrugged. His hearing aids weren’t in, but he could read her lips. She handed them to him, and he slipped them in. “You slept for a while.”
“Oh.” He flopped back down. “You know, most people don’t wait like that.”
“No, get up. I made you coffee.”
He sat up again, frowning. “Oh.” he took the mug, relishing it’s warmth on his hands. “Thanks.”
They sat there in silence, sipping their coffees, until Clint finally rolled out of the bed. He wandered across the room, and noticed there were still blankets on the couch.
“Did you sleep there?” he asked, frowning.
“Yeah,” she shrugged.
“Man, you didn’t have to,” he said. “I coulda.”
“Nah.”
Clint swallowed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.“
He realized he still felt raw. He listened to his own heartbeat for a moment, feeling the thrumming of his blood in his ears. He was alive, yes, but he still felt undone. Empty. There was still that lump in the back of his throat.
“I should go,” he murmured, reaching for his jacket. “I hafta— I gotta— I hafta go.”
“You sure?”
Clint nodded quickly. He pulled his jacket on, then swallowed and looked up.
A part of him wanted her to look at him, and ask if they could talk about what was happening, because he’s realized now that maybe, just maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. Maybe there was another way to make it better. Because as he said, these were the bad times.
But she didn’t, she just stood there, with a look on her face that was some sort of mix between unsure and anxious and sad.
“Thanks for letting me crash last night,” he said quietly. “I— I needed it.”
“Yeah. No problem.” She sounded nervous. He didn’t like it.
“I’m gonna go now.”
She nodded, and then he left, with a buzzing in his ears and that unfamiliar lump in his throat that he just didn’t know how to get rid of.
—
Natasha watched as he walked though the door, careful to shut it as he leaves. She wanted to go after him, tell him to stop and come back, but she didn’t. She just didn’t know how.
She stared at the door, and remembered that look in his eye— that sad, tired look he gave her just before he left. It was so empty that she wasn’t even sure he knew it. She never wanted to see it again.
She shook her head, moving to the fridge to get a glass of water, then headed back to her desk. The file was still there, about the potential start-up HYDRA base in New Mexico, so she opened it, flicked the lamp on, and started to read again.
But her mind wandered back to Clint. Was he okay right now? What was he doing? She clicked the pen a few times just out of nervous habit, then forced herself to keep reading.
High levels of gamma radiation coming from a previously abandoned HYDRA base. A mysterious truck with an unregistered license plate that somehow passed New York investigations in border security.
Still, her mind drifted to Clint.
—
It was late when she finally picked up her phone. She’d read through the whole file twice, and was already starting to decide on a theory or two.
Three texts from Steve, one from Banner, and one from Tony.
She quickly responded to Steve’s, then moved on to Banner’s.
It was a link to his paper on gamma radiation, for the file.
Self promoting idiot, she thought to herself, cracking a smile.
She tapped on Tony’s text, and the familiar nervous feeling settled again in her gut, about Clint.
I’ll be in my office if you need me.
Sent: 11:42 pm.
Two hours ago. She knew that any normal person would be asleep by now, but she also knew Tony Stark. She knew he was still there, still awake despite Pepper’s constant efforts to keep his sleep schedule consistent.
“FRIDAY, send Tony a text,” she said, locking her phone and keeping it plugged into the outlet near her desk. She pulled on a sweatshirt.
“What would you like to say?”
“I’m coming up now.”
“Sent.”
—
Natasha knocked tentatively out of habit, even though they were three full floors away from the avengers commons. After a moment, the door handle twisted, and it opened.
“You,” Tony said, pointing a finger, “should be asleep.” His hair was ruffled, and the dim light didn’t help his wrinkles. He was in a rumpled gray t-shirt and sweatpants— nothing fit for this kind of office. In contrast, the room behind him was silver and streamlined and pristine. The far wall wasn’t even a wall but a floor-to-ceiling window, and at the bottom were the tops of the buildings of new york city.
“So should you,” she sighed, stepping inside.
“Yeah, but you know me,” he murmured. “Coffee?”
She just rolled her eyes, so he shrugged and took a sip from the mug.
She walked around to the desk by window, eyes skimming across a photo of Tony and Pepper, then the scrawled notes in the notebook, then the desktop screen with the scanned file pages. He’d been working all night. A piece of her felt guilty, for bringing this up again.
But the other piece of her knew that she had to talk about this, because Clint won’t do anything without someone to push him forward. And at this point, he’s starting to scare her, more than he ever really has.
Because she knew about the doctors, and about the pills he used to take, and that he could usually manage himself. But she also knew that depression could kill, because she’s seen it firsthand when she was young, with the girls who just couldn’t take it anymore. It was ugly, scarring— and she couldn’t stand seeing Clint close to that.
“Something’s bothering you,” Tony observed, his voice cutting into her thoughts.
“He slept in my room last night,” she murmured.
“Well, that’s not too unusual,” Tony reasoned, tapping his pencil on the glass table. “Right?”
“Yeah. I don’t know.” She sat down in his office chair, the one with the cushions. “I’ve never seen him cry like that before, though.” Her face felt hot under Tony’s stare. She didn’t meet his eye.
The tapping stopped. “What?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, shaking her head. Her shoulders dropped. “He just... freaked out on me. Cried himself to sleep, practically. Tony, he’s never done that before.” She swallowed. “I know something is very wrong, I just don’t know what to do.”
Tony was silent for a while.
“I need to talk to him,” he said quietly, finally. “I need to see for myself.”
“What are you gonna say?”
“Whatever I need to.” He grimaced. He didn’t like talking about his own issues— but if it will help Clint, then he will.
“Tony, I don’t know what to do,” she said, looking up. Her voice was quiet, somber. “You know my past isn’t pretty; I’ve seen people... go down because of something like this. And... Clint is my friend.”
“I know.” Tony sighed. He swallowed, though, and straightened up. “Don’t worry. He’ll be okay. We can handle this.”
And she knew, she knew that he was only saying that, and he didn’t know if it will be okay at all. She just nodded anyways, and willed herself to believe it.