Warnings: situationally appropriate angst, mentions of drug use, language.

Infinite thanks to my awesome beta irite.

The director was seated behind his desk, perusing a file. Fury did not acknowledge Clint as he entered, instead waiting until the archer was standing directly in front of him. At which point Fury gestured at the nearby chairs and said, "Sit."

Clint was happy to oblige; after the night he'd had, sitting was infinitely better than standing. His head was still spinning, and under all the bandaging, his arm stung.

After a few more moments of silence, Fury looked up from what he was reading and leveled Clint with a hard look. "Agent Barton. As I understand it, your work in the field tonight was commendable. From the information Hill has gathered, it seems like your actions were crucial in mitigating the casualties and deaths that could have resulted from Lucas's actions. What I don't understand is, why the fuck were you in the field at all?"

Clint opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, Fury continued, "Because, if I recall correctly, you are currently 'removed from active duty' and on 'unpaid leave.' Does that sound familiar to you, Agent Barton?"

He felt a flash of irritation. Well, of course it sounded familiar. He wasn't an idiot, he'd just...

Completely disregarded your orders, marched off into the fray, put yourself and your team in danger, nearly got Nat shot...

The irritation faded as quickly as it had flared up. Without meeting Fury's eyes, Clint nodded slowly.

"Then there's the issue of the car you 'borrowed' and your late-night trip to the pharmacy. Care to explain any of that?" Clint didn't answer, and after a moment, Fury sighed, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. "Barton...this...fuck. You're not making this easy. I can overlook the car—hell, it's not like it's the first time you've skipped out on paperwork. But what you did in the pharmacy? That's a fucking felony. There is indisputable evidence of what you did, and I can't let something like that slide. By all rights, I should have you arrested."

Clint felt something in his chest spasm, and he noticed that he'd begun tapping his fingers against the arms of the chair. He forced his hand still, then reached up to massage the bridge of his nose. Halfway there, he changed direction to scratch his head awkwardly instead. Now was really not the time to look strung out.

Even if he was.

Fury was watching him carefully, and when Clint had settled back into relative stillness (because he couldn't stop his foot from bouncing, apparently, no matter how hard he tried), Fury added, "At the very least, your position with SHIELD should be terminated. Disregarding my damn orders and going off on your own was unnecessary. More important, it was dangerous. It put you in a position that you were not capable of handling—"

"I did, though," Clint interrupted, without thinking. "I did handle it." But the words felt hollow, even to him.

Apparently, they felt hollow to Fury, too. "Damn it, Barton, that's not the point! You shouldn't have been there! And that you apparently think so little of my orders and of your own safety says to me that you have no business working for this organization!"

Fury paused for breath, and Clint stood abruptly. He couldn't do this, not like this, not with his head on the verge of exploding, not with his hands shaking, not burned and battered and exhausted. He couldn't do this, but he was going to do it anyway. "Fine! Then fire me! Arrest me! You're right, I don't belong here, fucking strung out and shit." Clint began to pace, feeling Fury's eyes burning into him. His words began to come faster, cascading from his mouth without restraint. "I can't—I can't control myself. I just keep fucking killing people, and it's not my fault, but it is my fault because I can't control myself, so yeah, fire me. Please. Just, get me out of here. Send me to prison, or something, somewhere I don't have to think about it—"

"Barton, calm the fuck down," came Fury's voice, but to Clint it sounded like he was about a thousand miles away. Like he was far down a tunnel, his voice tiny and inconsequential. Clint had far more pressing things to worry about, like the way his chest had filled with lead, the way his head was swimming. How life in prison or life on his own were equally terrifying prospects, how thinking of either possibility filled him with dread so thick he couldn't rise to the surface of it.

No, it just kept dragging him down, like a hand was wrapped around his ankle.

"Barton!" Sharper, now. A hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Barton, listen to me. You're not going to prison."

"What?" Clint managed, more of a gasp than a word. "Why not? Why the fuck not?"

"Because...what happened to you wasn't your fault. You were a SHIELD agent doing your job."

"...Were?"

"Are," Fury corrected himself. "You are a SHIELD agent, and you were doing your job. And we're not...I'm not just going to throw you out on your ass because the repercussions of that are ugly. But, Christ, Barton...you can't keep doing things like this. If you want to stay with SHIELD, I'm going to need more from you."

Still not entirely capable of drawing breath, still dizzy and unfocused, Clint did not feel like now was the time to enter into any kind of commitment. Despite that, he choked out, "What do you need?"

Fury moved so that he was in Clint's line of sight and met his eyes. "Go to medical. Stay there. For as long as they want you to. Work with them, prove to me you can follow orders, that you care enough about your own well being to get better. If you can do that...we'll talk more."

"...And, what if I don't? If I can't?"

Fury shook his head. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. But I don't think it's going to be a problem."

Something still didn't sit right with him, though, and it took Clint a moment to figure out what.

Oh. This wasn't his choice. Not really. It wasn't much of a choice, anyway. And having the choice taken from him...having this modicum of control over his own future removed...made him feel physically sick. Every fiber of his being rebelled against it, and for a moment he considered turning on his heel and leaving. Running.

But that wasn't going to help, and he knew it. Maybe...to get some kind of agency, to regain his self-control...he'd have to give it up, just for a little while. Maybe controlling every little thing wasn't the answer.

And maybe giving up control wouldn't be so bad. Because he couldn't control himself, and he should be somewhere safe until he could.

It wasn't his choice, but that didn't mean it wasn't the right one.

After several moments of consideration, Clint nodded his consent. Fury picked up his phone.

"He did what?" Natasha snarled through the glass window.

Fury had sent Agent Hill down to biohazard containment area A, where 2/3 of the Avengers were currently housed, to inform Natasha of Clint's current arrangement. Natasha wasn't impressed. Her arm hurt, she was tired, sick of listening to Stark talk, and really, really needed a shower. This latest news was the last straw.

Hill shrugged helplessly. "He said it was for the best."

"He just coerced Clint into treatment."

Tony walked over to Natasha. "Well...at least he's getting treatment?" The whole coercion thing didn't sit well with him, either, not really, but a small part of him thought that getting Clint off the drugs would make working on his other issues much, much easier. So maybe that should be a priority.

Natasha snorted. "Right. There's always that. Let's just make him do whatever we want, it's not like he has some really, really serious issues with control."

"Look," Hill said. "It's not ideal, I know. But as soon as you're out of here, you can go up and see him."

She left. Probably for the best, as Natasha was getting more agitated every second. Clint was her responsibility, and she was trapped in this cell, unable to support him. Fucking Lucas.

Natasha paced for a moment, then asked the others, "Does anyone have any idea how long we're going to be stuck down here?"

"Bruce might know," Tony said, "But he hasn't come down to visit us yet. Asshole."

"Tony," Steve chided him. "I'm sure he's really busy right now, and there's not really a whole lot he could do for us, anyway."

"Yeah, I bet he's busy," Tony smirked. "Busy having breakfast, busy taking a shower, busy having a nap..."

"Now, I resent that," came Bruce's voice. He appeared around the corner, approaching the window of the biohazard containment area. He was freshly showered and carrying a bagel and a cup of decaf coffee. "I didn't have time for the nap." He settled down in the stool that someone had left by the window, setting his breakfast down and opening the file he'd had tucked under his arm. "I have some good news and some bad news."

"Bad news first," Natasha demanded, just as Thor suggested, "Let us hear the good tidings first."

Bruce looked momentarily unsure, before he pushed his glasses up and cleared his throat. Clearly, one of them was far more frightening than the other, and that was the one he'd listen to. "So, the bad news is, well. You remember Thompson? The first case? He tested completely clear of the Chitauri blood twenty-four hours after he was brought into custody...but that was twenty-four hours after the time he reported being exposed. So, it looks like it takes forty-eight hours to clear the body on its own."

"Two days?" Steve asked. "That's not so bad."

Natasha disagreed. "Two days? What's the good news, then?"

And Bruce grinned. "Well, once I knew what, exactly, was causing the contamination, I figured out a way to flush it from the body. Give me a couple of hours, and I'll have something for you. That, plus some time in the decontamination shower, should get you out of here in five or six hours, tops. So, you'll be stuck in here for maybe eight to ten hours."

Even Natasha had to admit that ten hours was a vast improvement over forty-eight. Still, she had some things she needed to get done today, and none of them were possible from the biohazard containment area. "Shouldn't you be working, then?"

Bruce took the hint and stood. "Um, yeah. Probably. Just thought I'd let you know what's up."

"Thank you, Dr. Banner," Thor said.

Tony added, "Yeah, thanks. But get to work, big guy."

Bruce huffed a small laugh and turned to leave.

"Wait," Natasha spoke. Bruce stopped and turned around again, the question 'what now?' clear on his face. "Could you go check on Clint? Hill said he's in medical...or heading that way, anyway."

Bruce frowned. "Of course, I'll try...but someone might call security again. I'll come back later and let you know what I find out."

Natasha nodded. "Thanks."

"No problem." And he headed back down the hall towards the elevator.

The others settled back into their immensely boring wait.

Bruce came back exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes later. Not that Natasha was keeping track.

This time, he was carrying four vials containing some kind of white powder, which he set down carefully by the lead doggie flap in the door before settling back onto his stool. "So. This should purge any toxins from your bodies. I'd recommend taking it with a glass of water...if you can. The vials are inflammable. Um...I think that's it. I need to get back to the lab, I've got to whip up another 20 or so doses of this stuff so SHIELD can get the others back to their lives." He stood again, apparently eager to leave.

"Bruce," Natasha prompted, kind of surprised by his attempt at a hasty retreat. It was almost like he was...hiding something. "Did you see Clint?"

Bruce's shoulders slumped minutely. "What? Oh, yeah." And he seemed suddenly just a little more awkward than usual, which Natasha immediately seized upon.

"How is he?"

"He's fine—"

"Don't lie to me, Banner."

Bruce swallowed visibly before trying again. "Really, he's not...bad."

"Dude, just get to the point before she finds a way to kill you from in here," Tony advised. "What's wrong with Barton?"

"He's...fine, really," Bruce said. "He's just...a little out of it. I think they gave him something for his anxiety. But he wanted me to let you know that he's fine. Really, that's all."

Natasha narrowed her eyes, glaring at the physicist. Bruce, she could tell, was telling the truth. He really was an abominable liar. "Thanks. Seriously, I appreciate it."

"It's really not a problem." Bruce was clearly relieved that she'd stopped grilling him. "I think we're all worried...the faster you guys get out of here, the better, really." He shrugged. "The powder should take four or five hours to work...it might not be the most pleasant experience. But once it's done, go through decontamination, and you should be good to go."

Everyone thanked him profusely—being largely tired of each other's company at this point—and Bruce headed back upstairs.

Pretty much the first thing Clint had done in medical, after being checked in and assigned to a room (and good God there was a lot of paperwork), was pick up his panic attack where he'd left off in Fury's office.

Because the reality of what was going on had hit him suddenly, like a ton of bricks, and it left him reeling. What the fuck are you doing here, Barton? What could this possibly accomplish? They can't help you, no one can...not even yourself.

He'd been sitting on the bed, freshly changed into hospital-issue pajama bottoms and a loose cotton t-shirt, looking at the needle in his hand (saline; he was dehydrated) and the heart rate monitor on his finger (tachycardic again, and it was speeding up...), and then suddenly he wasn't.

He was on the floor, face down, heart rate monitor dislodged, IV ripped out, an alarm going off somewhere nearby, struggling to breathe.

Which was pretty damn pathetic, but he didn't have much time to think about it before someone had jabbed a needle in his hip.

Whatever they'd given him had ended his panic attack pretty abruptly, left him feeling sticky and tired. The nurses had helped him back onto his bed, had re-inserted his IV, had resituated the heart rate monitor. They didn't say anything, and Clint couldn't help but feel that they were staring at him, judging him. But he didn't have the energy to do anything about it, so he just laid there, passive, and allowed them to poke and prod to their hearts' content. They left just as silently as they had come in.

Several minutes later, the doctor had come in to explain how they were going to proceed from here, and Clint was thrilled to see that it was the same doctor he'd seen, Christ, was it only yesterday? It felt like an eternity ago.

"Agent Barton. Imagine my surprise when I saw you'd been admitted," the doctor said dryly. Somehow, Clint thought he wasn't actually surprised at all.

"I'm not clear on the exact circumstances that brought you here," he continued, "Your file is pretty sparse on that. But now that you are here, here's what we're going to do. We'll continue administering the amphetamine at gradually lower doses until we have weaned you off of it completely. When was your last dose?"

"Midnight," Clint answered shortly.

The doctor nodded. "I see. I'll make sure your next dose is delivered shortly. Now, the weaning process should only take a few more days. We're also going to work on correcting your dehydration and weight loss. That might take longer, but it's something we can work on after your release as well. In the meantime, we're going to be working with Dr. Williamson to get a handle on the anxiety. She sent me her notes from your session, and she has a list of potential therapists; she'd like you to pick one to see on an outpatient basis. Do you have any questions about any of this?"

Flopped back against his pillows, Clint found it kind of hard to think of anything in particular. "No."

"I see you had a panic attack that was treated with chlordiazepoxide. Are you experiencing any side effects from the injection?"

Aside from feeling stoned? "No."

"Okay. Good. Why don't you get some rest? People will be in to check on you periodically; try to ignore them if you can. Get some sleep, and we'll see how you feel after that. Dr. Williamson should be in later this afternoon."

The doctor left.

Clint snorted softly to himself; he thought it was pretty unlikely he'd be getting any sleep. Since that was kind of where this whole debacle had started. Still, he felt...drowsy. And relaxed. And for once, lying in bed wasn't causing his heart rate to ratchet up. Actually, this wasn't so bad. He could get used to it.

Woah. Bad fucking idea.

Sure, he'd used benzos before. He'd kept what he assumed was Valium with his other pills. It was the only way he'd been able to get any sleep at all for months. But now he was getting really fucking close to clean, and Clint did not want to trade in an amphetamine habit for downers. Not now that mythical self-control was almost close enough to grasp.

He sat up, feeling a rush of dizziness. It passed fairly quickly, though, and he'd been about to stand up and move somewhere less comfortable (those chairs look pretty brutal) when Bruce showed up.

"Hey," the physicist greeted him awkwardly, lingering in the doorway. "Are you going somewhere?"

Clint appreciated how Bruce could accuse him of attempting escape while still managing to sound so casual. "Nope. Well, yeah. Could you give me a hand? I'm trying to get to those chairs..."

Bruce didn't question why Clint would want to sit in the hard, plastic visitor's chairs, just grabbed his good elbow and helped him up. Clint stumbled and Bruce caught him, before grabbing Clint's IV pole and tugging it across the room behind them.

"So. Um, how's it going?"

Clint sat down gingerly and settled back into the chair, resting his burned arm across his midsection. "Pretty good." He closed his eyes briefly before snapping them open again. Damn, the hard chairs weren't helping him stay awake at all. He let his gaze drift over to Bruce. "Why're you here?"

"Thought I'd check and see how you're doing," Bruce answered, craning his neck slightly to peer into Clint's face. "Are you okay?"

"...Sure. I'm fine," Clint answered a moment later, unaware that almost twenty seconds had passed since Bruce had asked his question.

Strangely, Bruce did not look reassured. "Are you sure?"

This time, at least, his answer was immediate, albeit annoyed. "Yeah." Then something occurred to him. "Hey, could you tell Nat? She's probably worried...and she shouldn't be. This is...good. A good idea."

A nurse came into the room, shooting Clint and Bruce a clearly disapproving look. "Agent Barton, you should be in bed. And I don't think you're cleared for visitors."

"I am," Clint protested. "...I think."

Bruce stood. "I need to get going anyway. The others seem to think I should be working on getting them out of containment."

Clint stood as well, and maneuvered himself back to his bed. "Sure."

With one more concerned look over his shoulder, Bruce slipped from the room.

The nurse handed Clint a small paper cup of water and a pill. "Here you go, Agent Barton. Can I get you anything else?"

Without even looking at her, he took the pill. He swallowed and then shook his head. "No, I'm fine." Even to his own ears, he didn't sound fine. He sounded...tense. And angry.

She left, grateful to be dismissed, leaving him alone.

Which was, as Clint discovered within ten minutes, not really the best plan.

He was tired and drowsy, but unwilling to sleep, so he turned the TV on. He couldn't focus on the program, though, and so he abandoned that plan pretty quickly. With nothing else to do, he was soon immersed in his own thoughts.

Clint reflected on the mission, on the man he'd shot, on the near-miss with Natasha. All in all, he agreed with Fury's assessment that he had no business continuing to work for SHIELD, at least until he got his shit together. Which, his mind was telling him, was probably going to be never. Because he was stupid, and weak, and if it wasn't drugs, it would be something else. That was the truth of it, it all related to his flawed constitution. His life was one long series of fuck ups, one right after another.

But Fury wasn't going to fire him, for whatever reason. At least, not yet. Clint figured, given enough time, he'd fuck up again, so badly that even the director of SHIELD couldn't save him.

Just a matter of time, Barton.

And how fucked up was it that he found that idea comforting?

He did his best to push those thoughts to the side, to push all of his thoughts to the side. Thinking was never a good idea, it just led him to the really dark corners of his mind that he needed to avoid.

At 3:30 PM, Dr. Williamson came by his room, to find Clint lying on his side, staring blankly out the window, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

He'd mostly failed at not thinking, had in fact thought long and hard about his situation. And now he was depressed, and angry, and entirely not in the mood for company.

"Agent Barton?" she prompted, taking in his haggard appearance, the bandaging on his arm, the fine sheen of sweat on his brow, the untouched lunch on the tray by his bed.

Clint sat up slowly. "Hi."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit." Which was honest. He was exhausted, and sore, and fucking ravenous. But he'd puked up the few bites of lunch he'd managed, and hadn't been brave enough to try again. Not given how much vomiting had increased the pain in his head.

"Well, let's see what we can do about that."

For the next hour, they talked. At least, Williamson talked. Clint tried to answer, tried to be helpful, but concentrating was too much work, and by the end of the hour, Clint was about ready to throw either her or himself out the window. "Are we done?"

She stood up from the chair she'd settled into. "For now. Look, Clint—can I call you that?" He nodded, tersely. "Clint. I know this isn't easy. And I know you're not feeling the best right now, but it'll get better. I promise. Even in just a few days, you'll start to feel better."

"Yeah? You know that?" He was practically snarling, he could feel it.

Williamson gave a firm nod. "Your body is trying to get a handle on what you've put it through. Once that's back to normal...well, the rest will get easier."

The platitudes were a little hard to bear. "Right."

"You don't believe me."

"No," he snapped, "I don't. What the fuck do you know about it?"

"I've done a lot of work with cases like yours—"

"What's that? With people who are too fucking pathetic to know that drugs are a fucking stupid choice? With people who can't, fuck, control themselves? People who just keep screwing up, over and over again?"

She gave him a level gaze. "I've done a lot of work with drug addicts, yes."

Drug addict.

And of course it wasn't the first time he'd heard the phrase, fuck, he applied it to himself all the time, plastered it across his forehead where he couldn't miss it whenever he looked at himself in the mirror. But, somehow, hearing the words from her, from this stranger, stopped him in his tracks and his anger evaporated. He slumped his shoulders. "I'm sorry, I just..."

"I know. It's hard. But we can fix this. You just have to try. Screw that. You just have to want to try."

Clint looked at his hands, folded in his lap. He shrugged, the closest thing to assent he could manage.

"Good. Look over the list of names I gave you; I included their specialties. I think the ones at the top of the list will be most helpful to you, and I've already contacted all of them to see if they'd be willing to take you on as a patient."

The idea of fucking therapy rubbed Clint entirely the wrong way, but he remembered what he'd thought earlier, about regaining his self-control by giving it up. "Fine."

Williamson gave him a smile that he did not see. "You've already done one of the hardest parts, Clint."

The Avengers busted out of biohazard contamination area A a bit before 7:00 PM, and it wasn't a minute too soon.

Natasha thought that if she'd had to listen to one more of Stark's stupid chemistry jokes, she was going eviscerate him. Barehanded.

"I'm going up to see Clint," she declared, once she'd joined the others outside the decontamination shower room.

"Good, let's go," Tony said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

But Natasha shot him a glare that she quickly tried to tone down. "I, um. Appreciate your concern, Stark, but I think we should go easy on him. Don't want to overwhelm him with visitors."

Tony gave an easy laugh. "Yeah, I know you're sick of me. We'll all come by tomorrow. Give me a call, though, when you get a chance. Don't leave me hanging." He gestured to Steve and Thor. "Come on, guys, let's find Bruce and then get the fuck out of here. I want dinner. Steak. Expensive. The more ridiculously overpriced the better."

Steve shook his head. "I don't think so. I should get started on all the paperwork I have to do..." Sadly, the idea of doing paperwork seemed preferable to any more of Tony's horrible attempts at humor.

Thor also declined. "I apologize, Stark, but I must contact my father about last night's events immediately."

Tony shrugged. "Suit yourselves. Bruce'll let me take him on a date."

They made their way towards the elevator so they could go their separate ways.

Natasha took a moment to gather her thoughts before following after them. She rode up, then made her way to medical.

Visiting hours were over, but they were more than happy to let Natasha in to visit once she'd given her name. And maybe leveled the night nurse with her scariest glare. Maybe.

Clint was, predictably, not sleeping. He wasn't doing anything, really. The TV was on, and his face was pointed in its general direction, but it was evident that he wasn't paying attention. His only movement was the constant tapping of his toes against the foot of the bed.

"Clint," Natasha greeted him.

He turned his head towards her. "Nat."

"How are you?"

With a sigh, Clint pulled himself into a sitting position. "Tired. Sore. Embarrassed as fuck to be here." He reached a hand out towards her injured arm. "And sorry. I'm so sorry."

She shook him off. "That is not your fault. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let Fury badger you into this—"

"It's okay," Clint interrupted her. "Really."

"No, it's not, I wasn't there for you—"

"Nat. I don't mind. I...did mind. But...I think this is good. I think I need to be here."

She gave him a sharp look. "Clint, you don't."

"No, hear me out. I can't...right now, I can't control myself. And it's my own fault. Not Loki's, mine. And...that sucks." He chuckled, but there was no real humor to it. "The withdrawal will be over in a few days. They say I'll be better, then. More...rational. More capable of 'coping.'" Clearly, this last bit irked him. "It's only for a few days."

Natasha could feel the doubtful expression on her face. She asked, "And was this really your choice? Or did Fury dangle your job over your head to make you jump? Your freedom?"

"Well..." he answered slowly."There was a little jumping involved. But it's okay. Really. I might not have made the choice, but...it's the right choice."

He seemed certain, convinced, so she just took his hand in hers for a moment before saying, "If you're sure."

"I am."

Clint is in the hospital for one week.

During that time, he puts on almost five pounds, an anti-emetic taking care of the worst of his nausea and allowing him to pack away the food that his starving body needs. His blood pressure comes down, his heart rate decreases, and his cardiovascular health improves dramatically.

He has his first therapy session with his new psychologist on his second day of hospitalization, and though he feels that it's mostly a pointless waste of time, he doesn't throw a chair through the window even though he really wants to, and he doesn't punch a single person. Considering the fact that Stark still sports some light bruising around his eyes, that's a real improvement.

His first 'assignment' is to try and sleep without using any drugs (or restraints; his shrink put the kibosh on that idea as soon as he'd brought it up), so they talk about it, and Clint musters up the courage to recruit the entire team of Avengers to sit by his bed through the night. Even though they've all mostly seen him at his worst, now, and stuck by him, he can't help but be anxious about asking them to do something so personal.

His anxiety is baseless, because they all agree in a heartbeat. Frankly, they all look glad to be doing something helpful for him.

The way Clint figures it, if he's going to go fucking crazy in his sleep, a whole fucking team of superheroes should be able to take him down pretty quickly. And thoroughly.

That idea soothes him enough that he manages to sleep the whole night through. For the first time in who-knows-how-long.

It's an accomplishment that they celebrate.

By his last night in the hospital, he's down to just Nat by his bed.

Also during his week in the hospital, Clint begins taking the anti-anxiety medication that Dr. Williamson prescribed. Although he doesn't notice any massive changes, Williamson assures him that the changes will come as long as he takes the medication regularly.

Clint has another panic attack halfway through day four. He resolutely puts his foot down when the nurses try to give him a benzodiazepine. Clint and Dr. Williamson have a heated discussion about this, but eventually she comes to see things his way. "As long as you keep taking the sertraline."

And Clint is amenable to that.

On the day of his release, Clint is finally clean, completely free of the amphetamine, the withdrawal symptoms faded into something he doesn't even notice—except when he's stressed. But his doctors tell him that even that will fade, given enough time.

But all's not entirely well. Free from the drugs, Clint realizes how profoundly fucked up other parts of his life have gotten, how badly his self-image has been skewed, how bruised his ego has become. As all of this comes to light, Clint is tempted to run, to hide from it, to do anything to gird himself against this new reality.

Because this is the pain he had been trying to avoid all along, and facing it now...well, that might end up being the hardest thing he's done yet. He doesn't know if he can handle it.

But he's not alone, not anymore, and Clint thinks that, at least, counts for something.

Thanks for reading!

This used to have a sequel. It doesn't anymore; the sequel has been deleted, as it was a piece of shit. If you're interested in the piece of shit sequel, message me and I might be able to get you a copy. It's incomplete and shitty.