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A Gift From: geckoholic
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Turn Off The Lights, Run For The Woods Now
A Gift For: franztastisch
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Alcoholism, withdrawal, mentions of child abuse and vomiting.
Summary: Clint learned how to save himself, and do it all on his own. In hindsight, that's the biggest lesson Barney ever taught him. Turns out it's one hell of a double-edged sword, and near impossible to unlearn.
Author's Note: This is ran away from me and turned really very terribly sad, and I am totally up for an IOU on an replacement gift if you find it to be too sad. Also, I’m sorry. Sort of. A little.


In the direct aftermath of the great big tracksuit battle and the communal gathering and chewing out that follows, Kate kinda forgets to leave. Everyone else files out, one by one, neighbors and colleague and exes, with a glance or a hug or squeeze of his shoulder. Kate doles out all three, too, more than once, even teams up with Bobbi to make him put in the hearing aids Stark had delivered here days ago. She just doesn't leg it after.

It's dark out by the time Clint remembers that he should shower the hospital stink off – they didn't actually go to a hospital, there were ambulances, but the smell clings regardless – and get dressed in something that covers his privates from all angles. On his way to the bathroom, after making his intentions known with a grunt, a nod of his head, and some additional pointing, it occurs to him that she might disappear while he's under the spray. They haven't talked it out yet – is she back, will she return to California in a few days, is this place, this city, still home at all – and maybe she's waited for an opportunity to quietly sneak right back out of his life. He shakes his head, violently, and almost overbalances, has to grip the edge of the sink to keep from falling. Nausea splashes in his belly, sending acid up his esophagus. He swallows it down.

Kate wouldn't do that. Kate knows how to use her words. One person in this partnership has to, otherwise how could they work? But then again, if they'd worked so well, she wouldn't have gone to L.A. In the first place.

He sheds the hospital gown, balls it up, and stuffs it into a bathroom trashcan much too small to hold it. The lid pops back up twice, and he fully expects Kate to huff at him about it later, but he leaves it anyway. Leaves it because of that. Maybe she won't march out on him again as long as there's still one more thing to fix.


***


When he pads out of the bathroom, hair still dripping and with a towel wrapped around his waist because of course he neglected to get a change of clothes, Kate's putting sheets on the sofa. Lucky's weaving through her legs and yapping excitedly, because to him, everything's a game. She steps out of his way with the ease of seasoned dog owner, looks up to Clint and rolls her eyes. But it's done with a smile, and that's something him and Lucky used to share; she couldn't really get mad at either of them.

Her gaze flickers over his body, the smile gaining a slight edge of exasperation. Because it's such a Clint thing to do; because his lack of skill when it comes to behaving like a grown up, taking proper care of himself and thinking even half a step ahead, is what made her run out on him to begin with.

Clint hoists the towel up a little higher, grip on the fabric tightening, and hurries out of sight. He gets dressed – briefs, socks, jeans, t-shirt – and pads back down. Only belatedly does he realize that it's late and she's made herself a bed on the couch and maybe full everyday wear wasn't the best option.

“Going out?” Kate asks, the expression on her face carefully neutral.

He'd like to pretend she's giving him an out, but the note in her voice, apprehension and annoyance, means it's more likely that she expects him to hit the nearest bar. That wasn't his intention, but suddenly he's not sure what's worse – playing it like he's indeed in it for a bar crawl, or admitting that he didn't pay attention to the time of the day, or, well, night, when he picked the clothes he changed into. His saving grace appears in form of the broom and half-full trash bags still piled by the door, which catch his attention when he looks around the room in an effort to avoid her gaze.

“Thought I'd give the house one more circuit,” he says, improvising. Tops it off with a small smile, and hopes he appears somewhat coherent.

Kate's posture relaxes a little. She rolls her shoulders and smiles back. “Want me to join?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “You go ahead, lay down, get some sleep. I'll be fine.”

She hesitates, concern creeping back into the long look she gives him. But she nods, pats the couch for Lucky to jump on, and heads for the bathroom at the same time as Clint makes for the door.


***


Because Clint doesn't like lying to Kate – even if it's improvisation to save her from having to worry about him too much – he does actually march through half the building, past piles of debris that'll take another day or two to clear. A few of his tenants have stayed in their apartments, mostly, he reckons, because they don't have anywhere else they can stay, and he does feel a little better, having made sure the makeshift repairs on the front door are holding. He ends up in the basement, doesn't bother convincing himself it's by chance.

There's always been a negative space in Clint's life where other people have family. He does have people who have come to occupy that space; his brain may feed him lies sometimes, but intellectually, Clint knows that. Kate's evidence enough of that, peacefully snoring, or so he hopes, on his couch upstairs. Natasha and Bobbi. Steve and Wanda, Tony, Bruce and the others. He's not alone.

It's a little harder to remember when he stares at the remainder of his brother's latest betrayal. And because Clint's a masochist down to the core, he lowers himself into a crouch against the dirty stone wall and keeps staring. His ears start itching, and he balls his hands into fists on his thighs, barely avoids beating them against the cold stone until his knuckles bleed. He tries to weigh whether getting the money and fucking right off again has always been Barney's reason to show up, or whether he just saw the opportunity and took it on a whim. Clint decides it doesn't quite matter. He's gone now, and it's for the better.


***


There used to be a time when the only thing Clint could count on was that Barney would stay. He wasn't gentle about it, had little talent for comfort or reassurance, but he was there. An immovable object rooted to Clint's side. Where Barney went, Clint would go as well, and vice versa, even though it didn't manage much by the way of protection when it came to their dad's outbursts. He taught him how to fight back instead, and hey, teach a guy to fish, right? Clint doesn't need saving anymore. Clint learned how to save himself, and do it all on his own.

In hindsight, that's the biggest lesson Barney ever taught him. Turns out it's one hell of a double-edged sword, and near impossible to unlearn.


***


He's woken by the creaking of the stairs down to the basement, wooden and noisy, loud enough that his aids accompany the sound with a tinny squeak. He struggles into a sitting position, stiff muscles aching from the cold and the unforgiving ground he’s been lying on, and he wants to crawl back into himself when he sees Kate's disapproving glance. She's halfway down the stairs and it's already unmistakable and sickeningly familiar: half worry and half I'm-so-done-with-your-shit-I-don't-even-have-words. He'd apologize, tell her he's sorry and he doesn't deserve her and maybe she should put them both out of their misery and just hop onto the next plane back to sunny California, but deep down Clint is selfish. He missed her. He's not sure he could take her leaving again, now, with things between them still so odd and raw.

Kate descends the rest of the step, a reluctance to her gait that makes him want to wince, and then she's in front of him, looking down, one hand extended. “C'mon. Let's get you into a real bed.”

It must still be night then, which means she either kept herself awake to wait for his return, or she'd woken herself and noticed he wasn't back yet. Both options make embarrassment shoot hotly up his neck. He ignores the proffered hand and staggers to his feet, swaying a little once he's upright. Takes a first step forward, and ow, that was a mistake, because a previously undetected headache begins pounding behind his forehead. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. Kate's hand comes up to touch the small of his back, steadying him, reassuring, and he doesn't have the strength to shake it off.

“Thank you, Katie,” he sing-songs instead, drawing out the ie because he knows it'll pisses her off. Laying the foundation to drive her away later, because he's done his dance before. Clint does the math in his head, how long it's been since his last drink, for what length of time he's been more or less constantly drinking before that. He knows what's coming and he doesn't want to be alone for it, but he's also not sure whether he can stand having her around to see.

The tracksuits and the clown and the guilt over unleashing both on his tenants was the reason he made a grab for the bottle this time. His brother's arrival was the reason why he hasn't yet managed to stop. Barney's presence – and his inevitable departure – quite often serve as a funhouse mirror. A reminder of the futile aggression that sits in the very marrow of Clint's bones, too, always has and always will, no matter how much he wishes it wasn't there. Clint's father punched his children. Clint pretty much punches bad guys for a living. And sure, one is supposed to be much nobler than the other, but aren't the key notes the same? Violence for the sake of being violent, enjoying the destruction your own hands wreak. That's part of his heritage; Barton men are vicious hurricanes. One way or another, they'll destroy everything and everyone in their paths and leave their relationships a wasteland. It's just that, usually, with Clint it's a little subtler than with Barney or their father.

But Kate's not running yet, this time. Even though she purses her lips, rolls her eyes, and her grip on him grows stronger. She nudges him towards the stairs, apparently intent on riding out the storm, and doesn't move her hand away all the way back to his apartment.


***


Wide awake from the trek back up the stairway, Clint beelines it to the kitchen and sets up a pot of coffee. Kate sighs at him, but doesn't argue; she sits on the sofa, her blanket thrown over the back rest, and yawns as she switches on the TV. Lucky jumps into her lap and looks up, peering at Clint past her shoulders, his tongue lolling.

The TV flickers to life, some infomercial for porcelain dolls. Clint jumps at the sudden noise even though he's seen her turn it on. He inhales again, screwing his eyes shut, and when he blinks them open he's looking at his own hand, and how it shakes as he counts spoonfuls of ground beans into the coffee machine. He puts the spoon aside and makes a fist, then uncurls his fingers, slowly and deliberately. The tremor isn't gone after that, but it's subsided enough that he can finish preparing the coffee without strewing the grounds around everywhere or dropping the pot filled with water. There's sweat collecting at his hairline, cold and clammy, and he's made up his mind. He definitely wants Kate gone, spare her the sight of the mess he's made of himself.

When Clint rounds the couch to tell her as much, he finds her curled into herself, face buried in Lucky's fur, snoring softly. And hey, for now that's the next best thing. He turns the TV off and nudges the dog until he can rearrange them both into a more comfortable position, covers them with the blanket, and then pads upstairs with his coffee and leftover donuts of undetermined age from the fridge.


***


The first time Barney took him drinking, Clint was twelve. For as long as he could remember, the stench of alcohol and, even worse, the stink of drunk people made him want to hurl. He couldn't quite imagine what he'd get out of drinking himself, but Barney'd let him tag along and that was rare enough, those days. He'd been sixteen and making his own money on the side and he wasn't around so much anymore. Clint didn't go to get smashed; he went because he wanted to be with his brother.

A couple hours later, said brother was rubbing his back, laughing, while Clint had been bent over the toilet in their trailer, actually being sick. He'd said that it was okay, it was his first time, he'd get used to it, after all the one good thing their father would have passed on to them was a talent for holding their liquor.

Since then, Clint's made good use of that particular genetic disposition a few times. That it renders him incapable of confronting his own reflection in the mirror every morning doesn't always matter, and it usually takes awhile to stop what he's doing and remember why mean old drunk is the one thing he'd sworn to himself he'd never become.


***


Sunrise finds him still awake, dead-exhausted but unable to drift off for more than a few minutes. He feels every beat of his pulse like a blow to the head. Bile ebbs and flows up his throat like a tide, but so far he's managed to keep the donuts and the coffee down. He remembers that once he starts puking he likely won't stop, and that'd make it much harder to hide the withdrawal symptoms from Kate. If he knows her at all, she'll rise soon, the kind of inexplicable morning person that wakes as soon as the first rays of sunlight tickle her nose; she'll be grumpy about it for the first half an hour and mumble requests for coffee and a shower, but she will be getting up.

Speaking about showers: he should probably have another. He doesn't feel hot, or feverish for that matter, but he's still drenched in cold sweat. He feels gross, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. At least this time, he manages to arm himself with fresh underwear, a clean t-shirt and sweat pants, and glances downstairs on his way into the bathroom. Kate shifts in her sleep, the couch creaking a little, but she slumbers on. Lucky raises his head and licks his snout, stupid happy dog face staring at him like seeing Clint is the high point of his day, every single time. Clint knows better than to buy into that; the stupid mutt likes Kate better. Then again, everyone with some sense likes Kate better, so that's okay.

He stays under the spray until the water turns lukewarm, head down and arms braced on the tiles, lets the water prattle over his neck and back, and takes his sweet time toweling off and getting dressed after. In the meantime, Kate’s gotten up, standing in the kitchen and cursing out the coffee machine when he climbs down the stairs.

“You really need to get a new one,” she says, attention still firmly on the kitchen appliance in question. “This one's crap.”

Clint wanders to the couch, patting his thigh as he sits down, and Lucky seizes the invitation immediately, curling up in his lap. “Good morning to you, too, Hawkeye.”

Kate finally turns, her expression hovering somewhere between worried and disappointed, but her voice lacks all emotion when she says, “Shower again? Did you throw up on yourself or something?”

“No.” He hastily shakes his head, hard enough that Lucky emits a low growl, which Clint supposes is either a complaint or translate into expressing concern for his owner. Great. Now he's upset the dog too. Embarrassment makes his face flush red-hot, and he feels caught, although she's wrong. “I wasn't... it's not like that.”

Unimpressed, immovable even, Kate pushes on. “So you weren't drinking while I was gone? You're not in withdrawal?”

And Clint considers denying her assumption, the lie already forming on his tongue, but it seems so pointless and nonsensical when she's already figured it out. He looks away, starts stroking the fur on Lucky's neck for something to do with his hands. “How did you know?”

There's the noise of a coffee pot being shoved back into its slot in the machine, and Kate's footsteps on the kitchen tile, cutting off when she reaches the carpet around the couch. She plops down heavily next to him.

“I know you, I have eyes, and I have Google.” Her voice sounds much gentler that just a minute ago. “Alcoholism is a popular topic on the internet. Tons of websites explain how to handle being friends with a recovering addict.”

Recovering addict is a term Clint never quite used for himself. Oh, it's not like he never saw himself as an addict; he is surely that. But he's not recovering and relapsing so much as he's swinging back and forth like a pendulum, powerless to change his own momentum either which way. Recovering indicates an upwards curve, however small. There are no words to explain that to her without sounding monumentally stupid, however, and so Clint just nods.

She inches a little closer, nudges his shoulder. “What I'm trying to say is, I'm here. Alright? I know what's going on with you, and I'm here now, and I won't let you deal with it alone.”

“I love how you make almost made that sound like a threat,” he comments, looking up just in time to catch her rolling her eyes in response. A little belatedly, he shoves back. Kate doesn't retaliate. She inches closer and places her head on his shoulder, causing Lucky to pant happily at them both and stretch out over both their laps in celebration.

“So, tell me,” she asks once they've all made themselves comfortable. “Has this been about those damn Russians? Grills? Barney? All of the above?”

This time, the lie comes easily and without a second thought. “I got him killed. Grills, I mean. If I hadn't insisted on playing the hero, they wouldn't have...”

He trails off, and she snuggles closer, shakes her head; he can feel that as much as he sees it. “You were trying to help. And if you'd been able to sit around and do nothing, you wouldn't be you.”

Nothing in her tone or the way she holds herself against him suggests she didn't buy this is the heart of the matter, and so Clint sits up a little straighter against the backrest and leaves it at that. Calls it a white lie, a necessity, because she doesn't need to know the truth. That's his burden, and much as he loves her and appreciates the offer to help, he's not even sure he could ever explain what it is between him and Barney and why Barney's mere presence makes him worse.

Kate has a sister. It's one of these things that she never told him and he knows anyway. Some sort of quiet assimilation that happens when your lives entwine; at some point she mentioned it, like, Susan's fiance is the worst, and of course Dad thinks he's the bee’s knees and from there on in it was shared knowledge. He gathered a lot more details about Kate's life that way than she did about his, and yes, that's intentional. By a general rule, Clint doesn't dwell on the past too much. He talks about it even less. He wouldn't be able to function, if he'd made that a regular habit. But, point is, Kate may have a sibling of her own, but she doesn't have Clint's history. She wouldn't understand, and that's a good thing.

“Hey, Hawkeye,” she says, then, interrupting his thoughts, and he lowers his head to meet her eyes. “Whenever you're ready to stop bullshitting me and tell me what's really going on, I'll still be here, okay?”

Of course she'd be more perceptive than he was giving her credit for; of course she knows him better. It's startling, in a way, even while it's not entirely surprising. And it opens up the space for a maybe – he can't promise that he'll get there, but what he can promise is that he'll try.

For now, he leans back, arm tightening around her to make sure she'll know she's invited to follow along, and tugs her head underneath his chin when she does. “You got it, Hawkeye.”