Work Text:
I.
In the worst of it, his fingers cramp and his stomach spasms and there's definitely tears. He hallucinates: Clint being tortured, Clint dead, Fury lost, S.H.I.E.L.D. failing and the world destroyed; Loki laughing hysterically at the decimation.
He vomits, he chokes. He's too cold, he's too hot; he thinks he's alone, then there's too many people. (Two, there's only two—Clint and Tony—but he sees a crowd around his bed.)
Eventually it ebbs enough that he can remember where he is and who he's with and he pleads, "Let me die," with the rising tide of the withdrawal.
"Not an option," Tony tells him.
Clint whispers into his ear, leaning in close to Phil whom he's cradled in his arms, "You didn't let me give up. Not letting you."
He falls back in the maelstrom.
II.
It starts like this:
Phil is fifteen, young and impressionable, and he's bored. His brother's away at college, his sister is nine and likes porcelain dolls, and his friends have all grown out of the stage where the fact that Phil lives on a farm is cool.
Seriously, he's bored. So much so he's thinking about joining in on his sister's tea party with the aforementioned dolls.
Then there's a knock on the door and his mom calls out that it's Ben, he wants to know if you want to go run around the pasture? (Yes. God, yes, he thinks. Awesome, he says.) Saved from the indignity of a little girl's pretend tea party, Phil races off into the field with Ben on his heels until they've reached the far side of the barn.
For an hour or so they traipse around the farm equipment, take the tractor for a joyride, and when dusk falls, they collapse against the fence, laughing and feeling worn out.
Ben pulls a bag out of his pocket as they come down, rolls the dry green leaves into paper, wets it with his tongue, and twists the ends—an expertly made joint—before lighting it. It's a scent Phil will remember forever, sharp and acrid, and when he takes his first drag, choking on it as he holds it in his lungs, he knows, somehow, this is going to change things.
(They call it a gateway drug. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't, but for Phil, eventually Marijuana just isn't enough...)
III.
Tony is an alcoholic. Recovering, now, but he'd freely admit that yes, the reason Pepper is glaring at him from across the kitchen is because he's holding Steve's glass of Whiskey. (He doesn't take a drink, doesn't even let the smell waft to him. He knows it'll only take him back down a rather dangerous path—he has other people to think about now.)
So when Clint very, very quietly takes Tony aside and asks, as subtly and discreetly as possible, what he should expect from a man in withdrawal, Tony answers. He tells Clint that it sucks and it hurts, that there's no fucking dignity in it—he'd pissed himself a few times and when there was nothing left in his stomach, he'd dry-heaved until his body cried surrender and bile came up; he'd begged for more, he'd begged to die—and that whoever he's asking all these questions for would be best off in a hospital.
"I did it here, with Pepper and JARVIS," he says, "But you know..."
Clint nods at the hand Tony gestures toward the ARC reactor, because, yeah, Tony does have that going for him. He sighs after a second. "Can't go to a hospital—SHIELD would have fucking kittens if they found out about this," Clint tells him.
Genius. Tony's a genius and his brain only takes a few seconds to piece two and two to equal four; he leans in close to Clint, angles himself away from the room lest anyone who might come in read his lips (Pepper) and drops his voice to keep any bugs (Fury) or superhearing (Steve, Thor) from listening in. "Coulson?"
"Yeah."
Tony closes his eyes. "How bad?"
"Bad."
"We talking drugs? Alcohol? Spider venom? Monkey piss?"
"First two."
"How long?"
"Years." Clint swallows. "If I'm right... decades."
Tony winces: this was going to be so fucking bad.
IV.
Phil's in his office when Clint corners him and at first, he thinks it's nothing... just time to head home. He starts to gather his papers, gets his briefcase out from under his desk, and he starts to chatter at Clint like he always does, but Clint isn't talking, isn't replying and when Phil looks up, he realizes why:
Clint is against his door—locked—and he has a bag in his hand that Phil would recognize anywhere.
He freezes. "Where did you find that?"
"So the toilet broke today," Clint answers, his tone almost conversational, "I thought I'd try to fix it for you."
Phil doesn't need Clint to go on, because he knows what happened thereafter. Knows that Clint had taken the lid off the toilet, knows he'd seen the waterproof bag Phil kept taped to the underside, knows that Clint's suspicion had immediately set in and he'd looked because what the hell would Phil keep taped to the underside of a toilet cover?
(Clint's used to secrets, he doesn't normally snoop around, but this isn't the first time he's found shit in a toilet tank. You grow up in a circus, you learn young that anything illegal eventually turns up in the john.)
For a few minutes they stare at each other over Phil's briefcase, stock-still and rigid, and then Clint says, "Medical's got fucking piece of shit locks—you've lost weight, your liver and kidney functions are screwed up, and they've recommended you be pulled out of the field for a while," he lets some of his anger show, "They're talking about involving Psych."
"I'm handling it."
"Really?"
Phil opens his mouth and prepares himself for an argument, he steels himself for his very first fight with Clint now that they're lovers, but he's stopped when a hand clamps over his mouth, chloroform stinking up his nostrils. He struggles in the hold, only for Clint to whisper, "Don't fight it, Phil," and for Natasha to add, "It'll be all right."
Then there's nothing.
V.
He's a Marine and he buys clean piss from a beggar in Iraq, which he knows is wrong but he can't bring himself to care. (It's what he's always done, what he'll always do when the words Drug and Test come up in the same sentence.) He leads his men from battle to camp to convoy; he and a guy in the unit, Sunderland, spend their downtime doing hits of whatever the kid can get his hands on, and he tells Coulson, "You're an amazing CO, sir. Seriously. You're fucking amazing," between sips of moonshine.
VI.
He takes Clint to a restaurant for their first official date, one of those higher end places that Clint's never been in before: diners, fast food joints, cafeterias, those are his usual eateries.
They leave after ten minutes, most of which is spent with Clint trying to make sense of a particularly odd menu (the hell is sous vide?), and end up back at the mansion with Chinese take-out and the complete Lord of the Rings Trilogy swiped from Tony's private collection.
"This is more like it," Clint says, smirking around a mouthful of Sesame Chicken as he reclines on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table; his tie is undone and hangs loosely over his half-unbuttoned shirt. His undershirt is untucked, and his pants duly wrinkled, his shoes have been kicked off somewhere between the foyer and the living room.
Phil definitely does not think about how much he'd like to crawl into Clint's lap and lick his way into Clint's mouth. Absolutely not. Except for the part where he kind of does, but he manages to restrain himself and instead, Phil falls onto the couch beside Clint, his own suit in a similar state of disarray.
They watch the movies and eat, until Clint leans over, pulls Phil close, and kisses him. He's demanding and won't let Phil take control, not this time around (any time after this, he'll relinquish control to Phil, but the first time, he won't let it be wrested from him and Clint forces him back against the cushions.)
When Clint draws back, he mumbles, "Gonna suck you until you fucking scream," and for the first time in thirty years, Phil feels high without chemical aid.
VII.
Tasha helps them to secure Phil; he should be out for a while longer, but JARVIS does tell them that it's possible Phil could wake up in ten minutes: he might metabolize drugs at a higher rate due to his addiction. They have to work fast, strapping him into the seat on Tony's private jet in record time.
"I'll hold down the fort and run interference with Fury," she tells the two conscious men as they check the harness, then she looks at Clint, "Remember what I said—the shit he'll spew at you? It's not him."
"I know."
She gives him a skeptical look. (This isn't the first person Tasha's known who needs to go through detox, isn't the first loved one she'll protect through the withdrawal, and she knows how ugly it can get.)
"Seriously, Tasha, I know," he promises, adds, "Keep Fury off our backs for as long as you can."
She nods, tells Tony, "Coulson gets bad, take him to a hospital," then leaves.
For a moment, it's almost like Phil's office again, the Mexican standoff, yet totally not: Clint and Tony stand over Phil, eyes locked on the restraint that'll do little when he wakes up and comes at them. They'll have their hands full and Clint can only hope that he's doing the right thing. (Okay, yes, he knows he is, but there's always the possibility that this will end with Phil dead.)
Tony tells him, "I'll go make sure we're ready for take-off. Get yourself buckled in."
"We'll be there before nightfall?"
"Should be." Tony shrugs—they'll get one night before the shakes will start and the anger, the nausea, and Tony knows Clint's going to need the last few good hours of sleep he'll get. "Seriously, buckle up. Get some shut eye while you can."
VIII.
Phil comes around in Tony's handbuilt medical bay, the glass enclosed area in the workshop echoing with the EKG. His heartrate sounds odd to his own ears, but Clint tells him, "It's normal, it's fine," and he sounds more than a little exhausted. "You fucking owe me for this, you bastard."
Finally opening his eyes, Phil feels like someone's weighed down his head with lead but manages to turn his head toward Clint... who looks like he's been hit by a Mack truck: his eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed, and there are quite prominent bags under them. His skin is pale, he looks ready to puke; Phil grimaces and struggles to get his hands under him, which sets off the machine and there's an ungodly screaming coming from the unit.
"Lay down!" Tony orders. "You're too weak to move on your own without your blood pressure going through the roof. And if you tear out that IV—again—I'm letting Fury put in a new one."
Phil lays down. "How long?"
Clint's silent. Tony answers, "Three days," and, "You seized, and your boyfriend here hasn't slept, so wave bye-bye to Hawkeye and tell him you'll be fine before I let Dummy sedate him."
The threat is enough and Phil does what Tony says, making sure to tell Clint, "Get your ass to bed," which is their own version of 'I love you'. He closes his eyes once the door to the workshop snaps shut, and breathes through his mouth when Tony messes with the IV; he mumbles, "Never thought you'd be the one here when I did this."
(He knew it would happen eventually, in all honesty, because even when you're in the height of the addiction, there's only ever two options in your future: die of an overdose or detox. And Phil's always been smart enough to know he'd pick the latter option.)
Tony casts a critical eye over his handler. "I know what it's like and as fucking stoic as your boy can be... well, there was going to come a point where he wouldn't be able to handle you on his own."
"Oh, really?"
"You had bursts of energy," Tony says, "Barton's going to be wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants for a while. You do the math."
"I..."
Tony softens his voice, remembers Pepper telling him, "It wasn't you. He knows that. But, you know, don't fuck him against any walls for a while—he's gonna be sore."
Phil groans, feeling a touch of guilt but mostly it's the lingering taste of bile on his tongue. He licks his lips, takes a drink of the water Tony offers, and before he can drop off to sleep he asks, "Fury?"
"Romanoff did her best, but he gave her the slip. Turned up here yesterday. We tried to convince him that you'd just been dosed with something... he didn't buy it. Said you were too fucked up for a single exposure, and he tore into Barton. Which, for the record, was fucking poor showmanship given how little sleep Clint's had."
"Damn," Phil murmurs.
"Hey, don't go all emo on us now." Tony smirks. "Bet you didn't know that we're not the only ones with addiction issues, pal: Fury's writing your absence off as a mandatory SHIELD-ordered vacation. And he did your paperwork."
That right there speaks volumes about their Director. Or at least volumes about how much he values Coulson.
"Anyway, you just conk out—it'll be a while yet before you feel up to par. I'll wrangle Barton," he promises.
Phil's not really comforted by the idea of Tony taking care of Clint, but he's too tired to argue and he stops worrying as he passes out.
IX.
He screams at Clint and he calls him names. He throws punches, kicks, and bites and when Clint fights back, it only enrages Phil more.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he shouts, gripping the comforter as he's wracked with tremors. "Why do you hate me?"
"Trust me, if I hated you, I wouldn't fucking be here," Clint replies, a hint of barely contained bitterness in his voice, and wipes a washcloth over Phil's forehead. He wrings out the now-warm cloth in the basin on the floor and spreads it out over Phil's back. "I fucking buried people who OD'd in the circus—dug the graves with Barney sometimes—and I'm not doing it again."
Phil stops writhing against the pain and looks up at Clint through glassy but clear eyes. "Clint?" he says, a question and a statement; he seems like he's a little more aware, like he's understood the significance of what Clint's just revealed.
"What?"
But the haze comes over Phil again and he goes back to spitting curses at Clint while he begs for something, anything, to take the edge off.