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 One: Desperate Times

Barton kicked the restroom door shut behind him with a crash, bruised fingers tugging at the short strands of his hair as he muttered a litany of angry curses under his breath. 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.

Stumbling over to the closest sink, the archer tossed his bow and quiver into the corner of the room as he inhaled a shaky breath. It took both trembling arms to keep his exhausted body upright whilst fighting against the aura of his impending sleep attack, but Clint released his breath after a purposefully slow count to twenty and accepted the fact that he was still standing as a win.

Over the years of dealing with his 'issues' in secret, Clint had taught himself to fight back against his narcolepsy; to delay a sleep attack by sheer stubbornness and force of will. At best, it gained him an extra few minutes to find somewhere safe to succumb to the inevitable; at worst, it made the attack all the more severe and sent his cataplexy into overdrive, and lately the odds definitely hadn't been in his favour.

With the last dregs of adrenaline fading from his system, Clint was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open and his head in the game. Refusing to acknowledge the exhausted reflection staring back at him in the filthy mirror, Clint stifled a jaw-cracking yawn as he set the tap running, splashing tepid water onto his face before unzipping the inside pocket of his armoured vest.

Cap's call for the team to assemble had come at a bad time, which, c'mon, when was it ever not? It wasn't like the Big Bad of the Week cared if they destroyed half of New York City, let alone messed with the blond assassin's Pretty Damn Important Sleep Schedule.

But mess with it they had. Although, to be fair, Clint hadn't been sticking to it all that well himself; not since Loki, and Phil, and the whole Avengers gig. Living with five other people made keeping important secrets like his narcolepsy almost impossible. If he wasn't more careful, Clint was going to get himself found out and then he'd be down a team and a safe place to live. The assassin'd had a few close calls already; he desperately needed to get his act together.

If he was lucky, Barton figured he had another five minutes before he'd be expected to check in with the rest of the team. As far as they were concerned he was evac'ing the last few stragglers whilst Stark and a Hulked-out Banner rounded up the rogue Doombots ravaging the city in retaliation for their earlier attempted take-down of Doom himself. Cap and Nat were with Thor, the threesome working alongside local law enforcement in order to catch the megalomaniacal asshole once and for all. Clint was just glad that, for once, the usually danger-blind citizens had realised the trouble they were in and had seen fit to flee the area with little extra encouragement needed on his part, freeing up the archer's time to selfishly rectify his own shitty situation. He just needed to be quick about it.

Exhaustion settling like a heavy fog in his brain, Clint cursed as his eyelids drooped, unsteady fingers fumbling the small, transparent container from his vest pocket until it fell with a soundless clatter into the cracked porcelain sink beneath him. The small, white, goddamn expensive tablets taunted him from within the confines of the plain amber bottle; the very last of his stash. Most were just crumbs. In fact, there probably wasn't enough for a full dose left, but Clint had reached the point of being beyond desperate.

Overcome with an unexpected flare of anger at the unfairness of his entire fucking situation, the archer curled his hand around the small bottle and struck the mirror in a fit of pique, the resulting spike of adrenaline as his knuckles easily shattered the glass the jolt his body needed to temporarily force back the all-consuming exhaustion. Now was not the time to be taking a nap, planned or otherwise. If only he could convince his traitorous body of the fact.

Panting through the pain of glass shredding skin, Clint shook his hand out and dropped the bottle back into the sink, stifling a series of yawns as he stumbled to the paper towel dispenser and grabbed a handful to stem the steady blood flow. How he was going to explain his new injury to the others, he had no clue. If he was lucky, maybe they wouldn't notice until later.

Much later.

Hand sloppily bandaged, Clint set to working the lid off of his medication, numb fingers making the task twice as difficult. The adrenaline from his self-inflicted wound was already dissipating, the fog of narcolepsy-induced sleepiness forcing back through with a vengeance so Clint took a steadying breath, clenching his injured hand into a fist to reawaken the pain but to little avail.

Part of him knew it was a risk swallowing his meds this late in the day, but Clint also understood that he had little other choice. Not unless he was willing to tap out and leave the team to finish off rounding up Doom and his army of bots without him, which, for the record, he wasn't.

Nat would understand; probably Thor too, but Clint didn't feel up to explaining himself to Stark or Rogers.

Nope. Not happening.

Biting back a relieved sob as the lid finally released, Clint didn't even care that he lost half of the remaining contents down the sink as he tipped it out into his bloodstained, trembling palm. Dry swallowing the handful of crumbs he'd managed to salvage, choking on their bitter taste, the assassin caught an unwelcome flash of red in the mirror from behind him.

No!

Spinning to face his unexpected guest, Barton lost his balance and tried to grab hold of the sink to right his exhausted body but the cataplexy chose that moment to strike, knees giving way beneath him as his arms lost the ability to function.

Clint was glad his hearing aids were off so he didn't have to acknowledge the embarrassing sounds of his body hitting the floor. Unable to cushion his fall, Clint's skull bounced unceremoniously off of the dirt-streaked tiles, the explosion of pain whiting out his vision but not before he caught sight of his startled teammate.

Author's Notes: So which teammate's stumbled upon our poor archer this time? Let me know what you think! PTWS