Work Text:
Bucky sends Steve a letter in February.
It’s not a production like everyone’s expecting their first contact since the fall of SHIELD to be, although it’s clearly a shock.
The unassuming white envelope appears in the mail one day, delicate cursive addressing it to Steven G. Rogers, and Steve must recognize the handwriting because he goes very, very quiet when Tony tosses it at him.
There’s only four of them in the lounge; Clint and Natasha are slumped on the couch together after a particularly scathing report from Fury, Natasha’s socked feet tucked under his thighs and Clint’s bandage-clad arm resting on her knees. They exchange a look when Steve goes quiet and Natasha must know because she unceremoniously kicks Tony out of the room before he can ask too many questions.
Clint leaves as well, because it’s none of his business.
Natasha stays, because she’s got some kind of a weird fixation with Steve the same way she does with Tony, something between a protective instinct and a scientific sort of curiosity. (Come to think of it, she’d done the same thing with him. She has a habit of picking up the most fucked-up people she can find - Clint does it too, so he can’t judge her.)
So he doesn’t know exactly what the letter says, he just knows that Steve’s eyes are red-rimmed when he reappears, and then he calls Sam Wilson and tells him to come home. Bucky Barnes is alive, and he’s shaken off the programming that Hydra have put him through. He’s alive - has to be, or Steve wouldn’t be as okay as he is.
“Are you sure?” Clint hears Sam say when he steps off the plane, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “I had some leads in Hong Kong, I can-”
“No,” Steve says. “No, please stay. It’s okay.”
“Alright,” Sam agrees, puts the bag down and gathers him into an awkward-looking embrace.
Steve visibly stiffens for a few long seconds and then deflates all at once, curling around Sam like he’s a lifeline. There might be more tears, there might not be. Clint turns his aids down to a buzz while they talk and keeps watch on the people milling around them, briefly catches the words let him live his life before he stops accidentally reading Steve’s lips.
And from then on it’s business as usual.
“What’re you wearing right now?”
“That is the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard,” Clint says, stretches out on his bed and looks up at the ceiling. The phone’s set on the pillow by his left ear - luckily the room is soundproofed per Tony’s preferences, because he’s got the speakers cranked up loud as they can go.
“Tell me. Now.”
The steel in the way the order is given makes him shiver, just a little. “Black shirt, plain. Got a soup stain on it from that place in the East Village - expensive stuff, but it’s so good. Those bright yellow boxers you hate.”
“I don’t hate them because they’re yellow, I hate them because they have ‘Choking Hazard’ printed on the front.”
“Understandable,” Clint concedes, turns his head so he can rub his cheek against the sheets. They’re soft against his skin, catching on the butterfly stitches he’s got stuck to his face. There’s a soft crackle of laughter from the phone. It makes Clint feel warm under his skin, safe somehow.
“Take them off. Don’t touch yourself, though.”
“Aw,” Clint says. “Not even a little?”
“Backtalk me and I’ll make you wait longer. Even better, I’ll just hang up the phone and leave you high and dry.”
“You’re mean,” Clint answers, although he’s just teasing. It takes him a few seconds to arch his hips off the bed, bend enough to grab the hem of his boxers and tug them off his legs. They end up on his dresser, knocking off a stack of arrows lying there. Clint doesn’t care.
“You asked for this. Begged for it, even."
Yeah, that’s true.
“Still wearing the shirt, sweetheart?”
“Yep,” Clint says. His heart’s beating a little faster just from this, from the anticipation of it all. “Want that taken off too?”
“No. Leave it on. But push it up, I want you to play with your nipples.”
His hands move before he’s even consciously decided to move them.
Clint knows how this’d go if he wasn’t alone and he moves slow, peels his shirt up around his armpits and then drags his rough fingertips over the bare skin of his chest. His breathing’s already a little erratic as he rubs over the bumpy lines of scars, and he lets out a quiet sigh as his fingers brush his nipples. He’s already sensitive; keyed up from the waiting, from not knowing how this’ll go.
“You doing what I tell you?”
“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out breathy. “What else do you want?”
“One hand on your dick. Slow. Let me hear you.”
“Fuck,” Clint says. Fuck.
Why is it so hot? He wants to bite his lip until the shock of pain makes him stop feeling like he's going to float away. He can't - that'd be muffling himself, and that's no good - but he wishes, for a second, and then changes his mind when he hears a soft noise from the phone.
Instead he lets his mouth fall open, thinks about sliding a few fingers in and slicking them up, fingering himself. Of course, he hasn’t been told to do that so he doesn’t, but the thought’s enough that his thumb comes away wet when he rubs over the head.
“Good boy,” and for some reason that’s what makes him twitch, spreading his legs a little more.
Clint closes his eyes and he can almost feel the warm breath ghosting over his neck, pretend the hand on his dick isn't his own. They'd be in a different bedroom, and maybe he'd be blindfolded and handcuffed, forced to take whatever's dealt to him and he wants it, he wants it so bad.
"Faster," and Clint fucking whines at the order, "I want to hear you lose it for me."
“Oh god,” he says weakly, twists his hand. He’s on a knife’s edge, still thinking about stubble dragging rough on his exposed thighs and half-gloved hands touching his stomach, his legs, his dick. His whole body is tense with it, nearly shaking, nearly there, and-
“Now come,” and his body reacts before his brain does, arching so hard his back isn’t touching the sheets anymore and he’s coming on a choked noise. He also hears a familiar grunt through the phone, smiles a little.
“Jesus, that’s nice,” he mumbles, wipes his hand off on the crumpled duvet.
“Did you?”
“Come? Yeah. Like a goddamn freight train, you know what your voice does to me. I’m gonna have to do laundry now, though,” Clint says dismally. “My sheets.”
A quiet laugh is all he gets, one that makes a shiver run down his spine. “I’m not done with you yet. Have you still got that dick, the purple one that vibrates?”
“You’re married, Clint?”
“Oh,” Clint says, looks down at the silver band on his ring finger. He rubs at it with his thumb idly, sees a glimmer of purple from the inner part. It makes him realize that Steve doesn’t see him without his gloves on that often. “Yeah. County Recorder’s office in Iowa. My cousin, she was the witness.”
Nat hasn’t asked about it, but he’s pretty sure she was hurt when she noticed the ring. They’re private people and he’s never asked her about what that thing with Matt Murdock was about, so she leaves him be regardless. Honestly, he doesn’t know what to tell her.
He doesn’t know what to tell Steve either, not with that painfully wistful look he’s wearing on his face. It makes him feel guilty, briefly. Steve’s lost love life isn’t his fault or his problem, but it’s kind of awkward when the idea of his own marriage sends Steve into this brooding silence.
“It’s a nice ring,” Steve offers eventually.
“ ‘s cobalt alloy - as indestructible as they could get it without stealing vibranium, y’know?”
“That’s nice,” Steve says. “That it’s durable enough for you to wear it during fights. She must be a lovely woman.”
“I could make something better,” Tony says, and Clint flicks a piece of paper at his forehead.
Clint’s juggling his laptop and a giant mug of coffee when the call comes through.
The chiming noise spills out of his speakers and JARVIS lights up for good measure to make sure he notices - the unfortunate downside of this attempt is that it startles him so much that he spills half of his coffee down the front of his shirt. True Barton fashion, he thinks distantly. Typical. This wouldn’t happen to anyone else.
Luckily it’s not too hot, but he’s wet and uncomfortable and it’s easier to just peel his shirt off and toss it aside before he presses the green telephone button. She won’t care about his naked chest anyway, and she’s seen the arrow tattoos before.
“Hi, Clint,” Laura greets.
She’s got one of the kids on her hip and they smack her in the face as she tries to stay in-frame, wobbles. Cooper doesn’t care, gives the screen a gap-toothed grin and waves enthusiastically at him. She looks like she’s been standing directly in a tornado, hair wilder than his and four different kinds of food splattered on her shirt.
Clint refrains from laughing. “Hey. Do I need to call back later?”
“Trust me, this is as quiet as it’s going to get,” she says grimly. “It’s taken me three hours to convince Lila to go to bed.”
“You’re doing great,” Clint says. “You know I’d be there helping if I could.”
“Yeah, yeah. We get it, Mister Big Avenger,” Laura teases. “Too busy being a superhero.”
“I shot a man made out of cheese the other day, this is not as great as you’re making it out to be. Oh yeah - I looked into that babysitter stuff, managed to find a young guy who’s willing to move out to buttfuck, Iowa. He’s clean, and he’s happy to sign non-disclosure papers for your safety and all that. Nice guy. Although his rates are pretty high, so I guess he’s not that nice.”
“You’re telling me you vetted a babysitter for me?”
“Well,” he says, shrugs. “Nat helped. I didn’t know what questions to ask when I did the interviews. But I’ll take care of the wages, if you want to take him up on it. I have his email address written on a sticky note somewhere.”
“You know what? That’d be great. Thank you.”
“Happy to help,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Steve chooses that moment to walk into the main area. He looks a little lost, for a moment - he’s still wearing running shorts and a worryingly tight shirt, and Clint assumes he’s been out in the park terrorizing the normal humans again. Not even a drop of sweat. Clint sorta hates him for it.
It takes Steve a few seconds before he even notices Clint standing there. He doesn’t flinch, credit to him, but he does stare at Clint for longer than necessary. Clint automatically wipes at his face just in case there’s something on there that’s making him stare.
“This is the communal kitchen, right?”
“Uh,” Clint says. “Yeah? Where else would it be?”
“I just… what are you doing, Clint?”
“Video call,” he says, points helpfully to the laptop screen.
One of the kids is crying now and the noise makes him cringe, just a little.
Steve just looks bewildered. “Who are you talking to?”
“Is that Captain America?”
“In the flesh,” Clint says, swivels his laptop around so they’re both in-frame. “Say hi. Steve, this is Laura.”
“Hi,” Steve repeats dutifully, offers an awkward sort of wave. “Should I - leave? Is this private?”
“We were just finishing up,” Laura says. “I’m going to spend the whole night consoling a child that’s convinced she doesn’t want my company until I leave her alone for five minutes. Never have kids, Captain America. They’re not worth it.”
“You’re doing great,” Clint says. “World’s best mother, that’s you.”
“You should buy me a mug with that on it. No one else will. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Seeya,” Clint says, waves as the screen goes dark.
He pushes the lid shut once he’s turned off Skype and leaves the laptop on the counter as he drifts back to the coffeepot, checks to see if there’s any left. He lost far too much to the spillage, which is - where did he end up throwing his shirt? It’s vanished - unfortunate. He pours the last couple of mouthfuls into his mostly-empty mug, looks at the contents mournfully.
It takes him a few moments to realize Steve hasn’t moved an inch.
“Kids, huh,” Steve says.
“Two of ‘em,” Clint agrees. “Third one on the way, if you can believe.”
“I never would’ve guessed,” Steve answers, looking distant.
“Did you… want something, Steve?”
“I… no, it’s nothing. You should probably keep… private conversations to your rooms, though,” Steve says. “Just in case someone walks in.”
Clint doesn’t know what that’s about but Steve wanders off after that, so it’s hard to interrogate him further. Maybe he has problems with people video chatting in eating areas. Maybe he was uncomfortable with being introduced to Laura. Whatever.
“Anyone see that machine up there?”
“Uh huh,” Sam says, and Clint squints at the rising black pillar with growing dread.
Dread that gets much worse when Natasha shoves him off the building they’re perched on just as a shockingly bright light smashes into the spot where he was standing.
Clint turns his face away as he falls with the wind whipping past him, manages to jam his bow into a gap in the brickwork. The abrupt stop jolts his arm painfully and he swears at himself, grabs for a handhold.
“Dammit, Nat,” he says.
Above him is a worrying clanking noise and Clint's forced to push himself tightly against the stone to avoid being hit by a pipe. He starts the agonizing climb down the outside of the building, which works right up until another blast makes him lose his footing and he falls to the ground with a thump, somehow managing to land on top of one of the black-clad goons chasing them. Groaning, he looks up as Natasha neatly jumps to the building across from him. That’d be right.
An explosion destroys his path back up to her and Clint shields his face, grimaces.
The whole town is going to go down at this rate.
A man tries to grab him. Clint jams the bow into his stomach and then kicks him in the face when he doubles over.
“Looking at a tactical retreat here, folks,” Tony says. “Whatever that light is, it’s having a weird effect on the people it touches.”
“What kind of a weird effect?”
“You ever heard the stories about Medusa? How she turned guys to stone? Yeah, the guy shooting at me is now a lovely perch for the local pigeons.”
“Tactical retreat,” Steve repeats.
Clint gets to his feet and heads in the opposite direction to the black pillar. He barely notices the lump of shredded clothes and pale skin curled into a ball in the rubble, nearly steps on it when he looks around and realizes there’s a distinct lack of Hulk around. A bullet whizzes past his face and he grabs Bruce, slings him over one shoulder and starts running for the trees.
Steve and Tony are waiting when he gets there, and he passes Bruce over to Tony before he looks around.
“Where’s Nat?”
Silence.
“Shit,” he hisses, turns around.
He doesn’t get a chance to go back out and hunt for her, though, because one of Steve’s gloved hands lands heavy on his shoulder and holds him back. Clint’s whole body insists he throw himself back out there until he’s got her standing by his side again, and instead he steels himself and turns to look at Steve.
“We lost Sam, too,” Steve says. “We'll get them back.”
Clint lets out a sigh, sags. His ass hurts. “What now?”
“I think I can figure out how it works. Bruce and I can make something to reverse the machine,” Tony says.”We just need a day to figure it out.”
“We need somewhere safe to stay while that happens,” Steve says.
“All my houses are out,” Tony replies. “They’ll know about those. I’m not exactly subtle or private, with the multi million-dollar mansions and all that.”
“I sold my place when I moved into the Tower,” Bruce says, and he and Tony exchange a couple of barely-there smiles. There’s something there, maybe, but Clint’s not sure he wants to know what it is. It was bad enough when he thought Steve and Tony were banging. He’s so relieved Natasha isn’t interested in any of them.
“I haven’t even bought a place that isn’t in the Tower, and technically I don’t own that either,” Steve says.
“And I refuse to crash into some random civilian’s house and put them in danger - I’ve done that before, it’s not right,” Bruce tacks on.
They all turn to look at him, making some kind of puppy-dog eyes. It’s not that effective, considering they’re all middle-aged men. Steve’s making a good effort, at least, but it’s still not working. Still, they’ve got to get out of here and go somewhere, and there’s only one place it’d be safe.
Clint lets out a sigh. “Alright, shit. I’ve got somewhere we can go.”
Clint insists on flying the Quinjet - working on keeping them in the air alleviates some of the anxiety plaguing him, especially because as the pilot he can tell them all to fuck off into the back. He doesn’t elaborate on where they’re going. If he’s honest with himself, he’s still not sure about bringing them along.
There’s not much of a choice, though.
It’s getting into late afternoon and he sets the autopilot on for just long enough to extricate his phone from the pocket of his leather jacket and turn it on. Somewhere the thing’s acquired yet another crack in the screen and Clint sighs at it. Bastard phone. Should’ve gotten a Nokia or like, a flip phone.
There’s only three contacts he’s sent texts to and Clint takes a moment to delete Coulson’s number, puts it to the back of his mind. He’s got no doubt that Natasha’s already disconnected hers on the off chance she’d be caught, which in retrospect was a good idea.
The third contact doesn’t have a name, just a raccoon emoji. He clicks on that one.
hey. coming home eta 2hrs
There’s no reply, and Clint looks up as Bruce shuffles in, settles in the copilot’s seat. He looks profoundly uncomfortable, but that’s how he looks a majority of the time so Clint doesn’t worry too much about it. They sit in silence for a minute as Bruce fiddles with his own hands and Clint checks his phone sporadically, hoping for at least a ‘read’ notification.
“Had enough of the peanut gallery?”
“Can’t afford to go green in the Quinjet,” Bruce agrees quietly. “They like yelling.”
“Mm,” Clint says. “You okay?”
“As much as I can be. It’s strange, not having them here.”
“You’re telling me,” Clint says. When’s the last time he and Nat haven’t been in contact? They’re always talking, even when they’re countries away from one another. Shit, he’s got to get her back sooner rather than later. “Look, there’s probably going to be some… drama? When we get where we’re going. You might want to wait here for a while, keep Tony with you.”
“We’ve got to start working anyway,” Bruce says, rubs at his forehead. “Do I want to know?”
“Nah,” Clint says. “It’s… complicated.”
His phone pings then, and he looks down to see Sounds Good. :)
It’s not good, but hey, better to be optimistic.
They touch down in one of the fields surrounding the farmhouse, and Clint switches on the cloaking gear before he tugs off his headset, heads out the back.
Steve’s pacing the inside of the plane. His helmet’s been removed at some point and his hair’s half-plastered to his skull. He looks the way Clint feels, and Clint distantly realizes it’s only going to get worse from here. Ah, to be someone else. He’s fiddling with his glove over the spot where his wedding ring is hidden.
“Alright,” Clint says. "Onwards and outwards."
“Tony,” Bruce says, bless him. “I’ve got some ideas we should test before it gets too late in the day. Do you have that battery, the tiny one with the tungsten cover?”
Clint doesn’t understand most of the science talk, so he just heads out of the Quinjet. It’s a relief to be out in the fresh air and the field is blessedly quiet, the grass swishing gentle around his knees. Steve’s hot on his heels, and when Clint glances back he’s looking at the old barn and the sheep in the distance with something like wonder on his face.
“They don’t give you a lot of chances to get out of the city, do they,” he says.
“I don’t think I’ve been on a farm since I was a kid,” Steve says wistfully. “My uncle had one, but I couldn’t stay there because of my lungs. Pollen was bad.”
Ah. That’s unfortunate.
“Let me go check it out first,” he says when they get to the front door. “Just… just in case.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Nah,” Clint says. He’s got his bow in hand though, and he can tell Steve’s noticed.
Steve stays where he is and Clint nudges the potted cactus on the porch over, picks up the spare key. The funny thing about being a highly dangerous former SHIELD agent and Avenger is that no one truly expects you to keep your spare key in such a simple place. He pushes it in the lock one-handed, checks to make sure Steve’s still waiting before he slips inside.
“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out.
“In the kitchen!”
Clint toes his boots off and heads down the hallway, tucking his bow away. There’s soft pop music coming from the radio tucked on a shelf and Clint leans up against the doorway of the kitchen, can’t help the smile that surfaces on his face.
“What’re you doing, Buck?”
“You missed a few spots when you repainted the guest bedroom,” Bucky says distractedly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear. He’s soft and messy like this, stolen purple hoodie pushed up to his elbows, flecks of sky blue on his jaw and neck. There’s a few paintbrushes lying in the sink, along with a roller.
Clint wants to wrap himself around Bucky, press his nose to those speckles of paint and breathe him in.
“I wasn’t wearing my glasses, piss off,” he says instead. “We can’t all have supersoldier vision.”
“You say that like you’ve worn your glasses at all since the place gave ‘em to you,” Bucky replies. “You didn’t even take them with you when you left.”
“I don’t like them,” Clint grumbles. It’s not his fault that bad eyesight is hereditary. At least it’s just causing problems with reading paperwork close-up and not his long-distance vision. He’s been practicing shooting with a blindfold just in case, but he won’t wear those goddamn glasses if he doesn’t have to.
“Wear the glasses, Barton,” Bucky says.
“I missed you,” Clint replies.
“I missed you,” Bucky repeats dutifully. “What’re you doing here? That wasn’t exactly the week-early heads up you normally give.”
“Yeah,” Clint says. “About that.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“Oh, you know. Avengers shit.” He steps closer, pins Bucky in against the counter and gently prods at his cheeks, rubs a speck of paint off his lip. Bucky catches Clint’s finger in his teeth for trying, bites down just enough to make Clint smirk. “You got a little something on your face, Barnes.”
“You got a little something on your face too,” Bucky replies. “It’s pretty ugly.”
“Ha ha,” Clint says dryly, takes his hand away so he can kiss Bucky properly. It’s hard to remember anything else when he’s tasting that smile on his lips, metal fingers pressed into his shoulder. Bucky’s other hand goes to his hip, tugs him in quick enough that Clint goes to brace one hand on the sink, accidentally knocks the tray of paint onto the floor.
“Great,” Bucky says. “Good job, really. You’re cleaning that, by the way.”
“That’s fair,” Clint answers, grimacing at the splatters on his socked feet. “First I’ve gotta talk to you. I know this isn’t great and I don’t want to spring this on you, but-”
“I heard a bang,” Steve says, appearing in the doorway. “Are you okay - Bucky?”
“-Steve’s here,” Clint finishes.
Shit.
“Banner, right? How d’you take your coffee?”
“I don’t drink coffee,” Bruce says, folding his hands together.
“I got lemon balm tea,” Bucky offers as he drops the first mug in front of Tony, and then the second in front of Clint. It’s got no milk and an obscene amount of sugar and Clint inhales the steam, closes his eyes for a brief second. God, he’s so tired. He wants Natasha back.
Steve’s sitting there like a statue. He’s somehow managed to sit down but he’s still staring directly at Bucky like he’s watching a ghost make them drinks. They’re not talking to each other; Bucky tried at first, but he’d given up soon after.
“Did Hydra give you a summer house, then?”
“Nah,” Clint says. “It’s mine, technically. Barton family-owned.”
“It’s ours,” Bucky corrects, and Clint’s gotta smile at the faintly territorial tone in his voice. It’s cute.
Once Bucky’s finished delivering drinks he leans on the back of Clint’s chair, with his chin resting on top of Clint’s hair. There must be something obvious about the way they’re sitting because Tony’s eyes go wide and then he looks at Bucky, looks back at Clint, looks back at Bucky, does that a few more times before he speaks.
“Wait,” Tony says. “You and Terminator?”
“I have a name, Stark,” Bucky replies.
Clint reaches up without speaking, finds his hand and holds onto it. Bucky squeezes back; he feels distinctly tense and it takes a second for Clint to swallow down the unease bubbling up his throat. He’s not ashamed - far from it - but a blowup about their relationship is a disaster they really don’t need right now, on top of everything else.
“Barton’s married, though,” Tony says. “Right? Is this some kind of a polyamory deal with your wife?”
“I’m possessive so no, he doesn’t have permission to sleep with anyone else,” Bucky answers, shifts and uses his free hand to tug a chain out from under his shirt. It’s delicate-looking, fragile, holding a shiny gold ring with a couple of nicely-sized sapphires.
Clint hadn’t minded splurging. Bucky deserves pretty things, even if he insists Clint is one of said pretty things. It had been impossible to find a ring that hadn’t interfered with the metal arm and Bucky had felt a little weird about wearing it on the other hand. The necklace works and if he’s happy, Clint’s happy.
“But,” Steve says, eyes flicking between the two of them. “I met your wife. Her name was Laura.”
“What? No, shit, Laura’s my cousin,” Clint says. “She was an undercover agent with SHIELD when all our info got spread on the internet and I had to help her vanish, along with her three rugrats. It’s been rough on her.”
Her husband had split when he’d found out. If anyone asks - not that they will - the bag of dog shit thrown through his apartment window had nothing to do with anyone Clint knows. It’s a lot better than what would’ve happened if Natasha had found out, because she’s fiercely protective of Laura.
“How long?”
The question comes from Steve. It’s not accusatory, but it’s quiet and slightly terrifying.
“We’ve been married for four months,” Bucky says.
“...since February,” Steve says.
They’re all silent for a minute, one that feels stifling with all the things that no one is saying. Even Tony’s suspiciously quiet, although when Clint looks it’s because he’s adjusting something on his phone. Oh, to be completely unrelated to this situation. Tony doesn’t know how lucky he is.
“I need some fresh air,” Steve says suddenly and then disappears down the hall.
They’re all silent for a minute, and Bucky lets out a sigh that’s fair too heavy for this early in the afternoon. Clint squeezes his hand again, leans back so he can feel a little more of Bucky’s body warmth.
Bruce and Tony don’t say a word and he wonders what they see when they look at it all, this old farmhouse that’s being patched up into something worthwhile. The fairy lights strung along one window, the old lavender couch with haphazard patches sewn on it. Clint’s bookshelves are filled with Bucky’s sci-fi novels and movies, a clumsy photo of Lucky when he’d been playing in the flower patch out back.
There’s a whole life here, a happy life, and Clint doesn’t know what to say about it.
“We should get to work,” Bruce says. “Thank you for the tea.”
“No problem,” Bucky replies. “You need any tools, they’re in the barn. Bedrooms are upstairs.”
Steve’s sitting on the porch when Clint finally goes to fetch him.
He’d been kind of hoping Steve would come inside on his own, but maybe that was being too optimistic.
It’s dark enough out that Clint nearly misses him, sitting on the swing in the shadows like a grim-looking white, red and blue statue. The porch light doesn’t work - yet another thing on the to-do list, and as much as Bucky’s enjoying the renovation process, Clint’s really wishing that Barney had left the place as less of a shithole.
“I’ve got spare clothes, if you want to get out of the suit,” Clint says. “My stuff’s too big for Tony and Bruce.”
Steve doesn’t answer. Clint lets out a sigh that feels heavier than it should, removes himself from the door frame to sit down next to him. There’s nothing he can think of to say, is the problem. What’s he supposed to do about this? His best option had been to stay out of the whole Steve situation and he still thinks it’s the best thing he could’ve done.
There’s a soft mew from under their feet and Clint looks down to see Alpine winding around Steve’s legs, rubbing her face against the tops of his boots.
Steve looks startled by it but he reaches down to tentatively rub his fingers against her head. That just encourages her and she springs up into his lap, begins carefully kneading his thighs before she settles down. Remarkably, Steve continues to pat her, and there’s even a ghost of a smile on his face.
“She yours?”
“Nah,” Clint says. “Bucky rescued her from a storm drain. Took us two hours to fish her out, and then she wouldn’t stop cuddling him.”
“Oh,” Steve says, looks troubled. He keeps petting her, though.
Clint looks down at his own hands awkwardly. It makes him stare at the ring, the dark shape of it in the shadows.
“You’ve got neighbours?”
“Hm?”
There’s no neighbours for miles. That’s alarming. Steve points out in the distance, where Clint can see a few tiny glowing lights floating around amongst the grass when he looks. As he watches they sway gently and then move, and Clint shakes his head, leans back in his seat.
“They’re lightning bugs,” he says, gets a blank look in response. “Fireflies?”
“Oh,” Steve says.
“Bucky was pretty entranced by them when he first stopped here,” Clint adds, doesn’t know if he’s saying the right thing or making it worse. “Used to sit out here watching them for so long that I had to start bringing him the heavy winter blankets.”
“They are beautiful,” Steve agrees.
“Yeah,” Clint says. They watch the fireflies in silence for a while longer, and then his blabbermouth takes over. “I think I ruined it for him when I told him it was just the male fireflies trying to flirt with the women.”
“You did,” Bucky interrupts, and Clint turns to see him leaning up against the door frame, a few stray pencils pushed through his messy ponytail. “Got no damn poetry in your soul, Barton, and you gotta ruin it for other people.”
“Aw,” Clint says, grins at him. “I’m sorry, baby. Can I make it up to you?”
“You can come in for dinner before it gets cold,” Bucky answers. “I made stir fry. Steve, I took the mushrooms outta yours and I ain’t bringing it out here so you can sulk in the dark. You’re gonna have to come within five feet of me, sorry.”
He disappears back inside.
“I just. I don’t understand,” Steve says. “How did this even happen?”
“I was coming back to help after Project Insight and all that shit with SHIELD,” Clint says. “Found him collapsed on the side of the road, soaking wet and trying to stab me in the chest.”
It had been a pretty weak attempt from the so-called most dangerous assassin in the world. Clint hadn’t even had to dodge it; Bucky had thrust the knife at the air by his elbow, staring up at him with feverish blue eyes. It’s well-known that Clint’s got a thing about strays, so he knew where this was going the second he’d pulled over to check out the lump of black leather and steel curled up on the gravel.
“I meant the relationship,” Steve says. “The marriage.”
“Oh. Yeah, I don’t know, it just kind of… happened. I’m pretty sure he kissed me first.”
Steve looks down at Alpine where she’s purring up a storm. “From the letter he’d sent, I thought he was…”
“Was what?”
“No,” Steve says. “Nevermind.”
Dinner is fairly uneventful, although that might be because Clint scarfs his down as fast as he can and then disappears to go feed the animals.
Lucky follows at his heels as he wanders into the barn to make sure all the chickens are there.
They cluck at him with displeasure and he finds his favourite, an oversized white bantam, pats down her smooth back as he walks past. They’re all happy here, so he heads back to the farmhouse to retrieve Alpine’s food and a snack for Lucky because he’s a good boy, and Clint has an uncontrollable desire to spoil him.
The kitchen is silent when he enters it through the backdoor, glances around. Nothing. He rummages around in the fridge and finds a banana, pulls out a knife to slice up a few rounds to pass down into Lucky’s waiting mouth. It’s healthier than the pizza, at least.
Clint goes into the other room to find the others, hears faint voices on the porch. Outside again? Do they have some kind of kink for mosquitoes? He passes Lucky another piece of banana, gets his whole hand licked in return. Lovely.
He’s about to open the door and join them when he hears the words Steve is saying.
“Are you happy here? Do you love him?”
Apparently Bruce and Tony have gone elsewhere, because he’s guessing Steve isn’t talking to either of them. Clint’s not an insecure kind of guy - a blatant lie - but the questions make him pause, keep him standing in the shadows waiting for the answer.
“Gee, Steve, why don’t I start grilling you about that Sam Wilson, huh? First time we see each other properly in seventy years and you can’t even tell me that your dinner was nice. Yes, I love him.”
“And you’re… here because you want to be?”
A sigh. “Steve. You’re bein’ overprotective again. I didn’t tell you in the letter because I knew you’d start harassing Clint about me. He doesn’t deserve that.”
“I’m just - Clint?”
“I know he looks like a mess, acts like a mess, is a mess when he's not kicking someone's ass,” Bucky says. “Turns out he’s my mess, though. I’m happy with him - more than I thought I could be, after… everything.”
Huh.
Clint goes to the bedroom after that. Eavesdropping feels wrong, and it’ll be nice to brush his teeth at least once this week. He switches on the light and twists around to look at the mess on his back, grimaces at the bloody marks where he’d landed in the street. (Landed in the street because Natasha had saved his ass. Goddamnit.)
The sheets smell like lavender when he slides underneath them, curls up in the dark. Bucky’s left the window open and he can see the moon in clear view. It’d be just their luck if werewolves started showing up too.
“Hey,” Bucky says and Clint doesn’t know how long it’s been since he closed his eyes. They’re spooned together now, the metal arm curled over Clint’s stomach. “I’m sorry about Steve.”
“I was going to apologize to you about Steve,” Clint mumbles.
Bucky huffs out a soft laugh against the back of his neck. “Call it even?”
“Call it even,” Clint repeats tiredly. “We gotta head out again in the morning anyway. Gotta go save the world ‘n stuff. Find Nat.”
“You can do it,” Bucky says.
“Hope so,” Clint answers.
“Need some help getting these off?”
Bucky’s fingers gently brush his ear, touch the hearing aids he’s still wearing. Clint makes a vaguely affirmative noise and tips his head helpfully, lets Bucky take care of it. Lets Bucky take care of him, and something in his chest softens at that, tension releasing from his aching muscles. He hears the buzz of Bucky’s voice but can’t figure out what he’s saying, doesn’t worry about it as Bucky’s fingers stroke gentle over the ring on his finger.
“Love you,” he says back, just as he’s falling asleep.
“Okay,” Bruce says, signing carefully along with his words. “Steve goes in with the device, as stealthy as he can, attaches it to the machine. The device reverses the machine, everyone goes back to normal.”
Clint braces his elbows on the table, rests his chin on his hands. He woke up at eight and couldn’t be bothered putting his aids back in, so everything is a low buzz of noise right now. The police radio Tony’s keeping an eye on isn’t helping him focus. His brain hurts. He’s got to keep it together so they can go get the others.
“What about the rest of us?”
“Hulk is a last resort,” Steve says from his spot next to Bruce. “Tony’s armour is too noticeable, so he’s out as well. You’re on ranged support, taking out anyone that might notice me. We need to make as little noise as possible.”
“You sure we can do this? Just the two of us?”
“I trust you,” Steve says, smiles very small.
Clint feels himself back, because that’s as close to a blessing as he’s going to get. As much as he likes to pretend Steve’s opinion doesn’t mean shit, he’s inwardly over the moon about that. Steve Rogers approves of his relationship with Bucky Barnes. Whatever Bucky told him last night must’ve been impressive, although Clint can’t think of what.
Clint’s not paying attention, so he misses most of what Tony says. Shit. “Can you repeat that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tony says, waves him off.
Yeah, sure, don’t worry about the guy who can’t hear properly.
Clint can feel the scowl tugging at his lips when Bucky’s hand on his wrist distracts him, makes him look over there instead. Bucky waits for him to be paying full attention before he falls into the same position Tony’s sitting in and says, “If you two are quite finished re-enacting every romcom in existence," with a look on his face that says he’s making fun of Stark.
It works. Clint snickers and Bucky smirks at him, clearly pleased with himself.
Tony says something else, but Clint decides he doesn’t care.
“Need help getting into your suit?”
“How long until we leave? Bruce?”
“Half an hour should give us time to get it set up and mobile,” Bruce says.
“Absolutely,” Clint replies instantly. “Let’s go.”
They head up the stairs and if someone protests, well. Clint can’t hear it properly anyway. Bucky follows him into the spare room they keep for weapons and battle-ready suits, peels off his hoodie and sweatpants nice and slow for him. Clint leans into it when Bucky runs a hand up his bare leg, presses a kiss to his shoulder.
“We don’t have time for sex,” Clint says, a little dismal, as he attaches the comms unit to his left hearing aid.
“We have time for me helping you get dressed,” Bucky answers. “Stay.”
It’s firm enough that Clint does stay, a faint little shiver running up his spine. There’s no time for that though. He watches in the mirror as Bucky heads over to the row of vests and jackets hanging up, fingers through them with a thoughtful look on his face. Eventually he comes back with one of Clint’s favourite shirts and a slightly more bulletproof vest.
“I’m sorry we’re not staying longer,” Clint says, lifting his arms helpfully. “I’ll come back once this all blows over, turn my phone off.”
“It’s okay. I knew what I was getting into, and the time alone is nice anyway,” Bucky returns. His knuckles drag against Clint’s sides gently as he tugs the shirt down, and Clint tips his head to the side as Bucky’s lips brush his neck. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Wear the tight pants.”
“You just want to look at my ass,” Clint says.
“Well, yeah,” Bucky admits, and Clint bites back a yelp as his ass is slapped. “Who wouldn’t? Now go save the world.”
Saving the world turns out to be harder than it should be.
“Got it. One on my three o’clock, behind the red rooftop,” Steve says, and Clint releases an arrow, bounces it off a low-hanging lamppost and into the skull of the man trying to sneak up on him. He thinks the crack that he hears is just the run-down building he’s perched in.
Then he looks down and sees the red blooming dark through his clothes.
“Fuck,” he breathes, lets loose another arrow. What kind of weapons have they got, that it’d go right through his suit? It can’t have hit anything vital. He scrabbles for the packet of medical nanites Tony had passed him, rips open the adhesive patch they’re stuck to and slaps them on, grimaces.
Tiny robots crawling over an open wound isn’t his idea of a good time - it’s not exactly painless, either.
“You okay, Clint?”
“I’m fine,” he says.
Then he reaches back and finds another arrow. And another. Fucking hell. There’s more men running after Steve and he sees a flash of red, all the air escaping from his lungs when he sees Natasha running to give Steve backup. The device worked, then. His hand grabs at thin air and he gets up on suddenly shaky legs to walk to the half-broken table where he’d left spare arrows.
Why is breathing making him feel dizzy?
For a second he thinks the figure in black is a hallucination. Then he blinks and it’s Bucky standing there, wearing one of Clint’s old jackets with the left sleeve ripped off. His hair’s pulled up into a soft ponytail and he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.
“That’s not fine,” Bucky observes.
“There’s a guy trying to repair the machine. We need him taken out sooner rather than later, Barton.”
“I need to,” he says.
Bucky takes the bow from his numb fingers with zero resistance, sets it on the table. There’s no anger in his eyes; the flat line of his lips says he understands and somehow that’s worse than if he’d been mad about Clint’s self-destructive tendencies. After he’s carefully removed the weapon from Clint’s body he stands back, watches with dark eyes. Waiting for Clint to snatch them back, to yell and shout or scrabble for a window to escape from.
Every bone in his body aches though, and every breath feels like he’s being stabbed in the chest, and he’s just so goddamn tired. He feels his face crumple and Bucky’s expressions softens immediately as he reaches out to pull Clint in close, as much hugging him as he is keeping them both upright.
“I’ve gotta,” Clint says thickly, shoves his nose in against the curve of Bucky’s shoulder.
“Stay down, Hawkeye,” Bucky says, skates careful fingers down his spine.
“Barton, I need that shot,” Tony says in his ear. “What the hell’s taking so long?”
Bucky must hear that one because he pushes back and away - too far, and Clint doesn’t mean to make the tiny bereft sound that he does but it slips out anyway. One of Bucky’s hands disappears from his back and then it’s touching his neck, fingers cold and gentle. His eyes are almost silver in this light, and then his fingers brush Clint’s ear.
“You mind if I borrow this?”
“Okay,” Clint says, and it’s lucky the comms unit that attaches to his hearing aid can function without it or he’d be in trouble.
Bucky takes the tiny earpiece, presses it into his own ear and then turns to pick up a wicked-looking sniper rifle, hefting it on his shoulder with one hand. He comes back to press a brief kiss to Clint’s forehead, a soft thing that makes Clint’s eyes burn a little.
“Sit down,” Bucky orders, although it’s gentle. “Just breathe for a second, alright? I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m an Avenger,” Clint says uselessly.
“You’re a pain in the ass, sweetheart,” and yeah, maybe that’s true, but he doesn’t have to say it.
Bucky guides him into a sitting position, pushes his shirt up to double-check the patch on his stomach. It hasn’t bled through and Clint’s as relieved as anyone but he’s still fighting the urge to grab his bow and get up again. Chances are he wouldn’t manage it now, and Bucky gently links their fingers together and squeezes for a second before he adjusts the comms.
“Barton’s taking a break,” he says. “Who am I taking out?”
Clint doesn’t hear the reply but he sees the look in Bucky’s eyes fade into a cold focus, fingers curling around the gun. He hears the gunshot, watches vaguely as Bucky takes down one enemy after the other. It’s… he’s a little turned on, honestly, but that feels like the wrong reaction.
“Okay,” Bucky says, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “We gotta move soon, they said the machine’s gonna blow. I-”
Clint doesn’t get to hear whatever the end of that sentence is, because somehow one of the guards has climbed up the broken-up old building from the other side and they grab Clint by the throat, slam him against a wall. Clint’s still in pain but he reacts instinctively, kicks them in the crotch and then swings his thighs up into one of Natasha’s chokeholds before he throws them to the ground.
“I’m okay,” he says needlessly when he realizes Bucky’s just standing there. Fuck, his stomach hurts.
“That’s… really hot,” Bucky says breathlessly, alleviating any guilt Clint had over being attracted to the rifle handling. “Once this is over I’m gonna need you to use your martial arts on me instead.”
“Anytime,” Clint replies, grins weakly. “Pin you to the floor and have my way with you. It’s about time we switched anyway.”
“C’mon,” Bucky says. “We gotta get out of here. Ladder?”
“Ladder,” Clint agrees. It’s gonna hurt.
A head appears by the ladder. Bucky shoots without looking, hits them directly in the face. Clint watches blankly, tries very hard not to be into it as he hears a very faint smashing noise and remembers he’d left a vehicle directly underneath. Dammit.
There’s blood on his teeth.
“I used to value my independence before I fell in love with you,” Clint says.
“Would you stop? You’re injured, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky replies, sending a spray of bullets in the direction of a very persistent enemy. He’s only using one hand because the other is helping to keep Clint upright, even though Clint’s been protesting the whole time. “I’m not letting go of you, Barton.”
Clint’s fairly sure he doesn’t deserve Bucky.
“Give me a handgun,” he says instead, takes the Beretta and shoots the offending black shape in the forehead. “Baby, what are you doing? You’re retired.”
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” Bucky reasons. “What’s the point of bein’ married if you can’t do things together? Duck.”
Clint shifts obediently, winces when it shifts the robots trying to knit him back together. Bucky shoots over his head and Clint glances to the side, sees a flicker of movement and aims his own gun past Bucky’s hip, at a guy with a grenade launcher. Ooh, grenade launcher. Once he’s sure they’re not going to be shot at again he tries to nudge Bucky in that direction.
“We do a good job of kicking ass together,” Bucky remarks.
Clint shoots a guy in the head. He misses his bow.
“You were out,” he says. “You don’t do this anymore, you - you water succulents and adopt cats and read shitty sci-fi novels, you said you didn’t like fighting.”
“I don’t,” Bucky replies, picks up the grenade launcher like it weighs nothing - probably doesn’t, with a metal arm and supersoldier serum - and shoots it at a building, squints when it goes off with a boom, men falling from the shattered windows. Gah. “Not the way you and Steve do - goddamn danger junkies, I tell ya - but I always knew I was gonna have to come back to it. There’s always a fight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Bucky says. “’til death do us part, right?”
“I guess,” Clint replies, as the Quinjet comes into view. Natasha’s standing there with her hands on her hips, Sam standing by her shoulder. He’s so relieved to see them, and then he notices the look in her eyes. “Hey, Buck. You know how Steve is your overprotective best friend?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says.
“That’s mine,” Clint says as the machine blows up behind them and Natasha stalks forward. “Welcome to the Avengers, honey.”