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Clint is on mission when SHIELD goes down. He's in deep cover, and it's only days later that he finds out.
*
The man he was sent to kill, Joshua Tremblay, the leader of a human trafficking ring in Africa, waves a gun in Clint's face, cursing him and his mother, which honestly is taking things a bit far. Clint zones him out, barely biting back his sarcastic snaps. Tremblay must see Clint isn't paying attention because he gets pissed. The guards lay into Clint, but the agent doesn't make a sound. He's been through worse than just a beating, and honestly the men don't even know where to hit.
"That the best you got?" Clint braces himself for the slap and isn't disappointed.
"What right do you have to think you're better? We found you, no?" Some of Clint's irritation must show on his face because suddenly Tremblay is grinning, grinning and clapping. "You don't know, do you? You honestly don't know!" The archer lets his resting face speak for him, even as on the inside the first twinges of anxiety begin. Tremblay leans in close, close enough for Clint to pick out individual eyelashes and get a shower of spittle every time the man speaks. "No one is going to come for you, Specialist Clinton Barton, or would you prefer Hawkeye? Your agency is gone." Clint doesn't let his expression show anything, though on the inside he is screaming. Very carefully, Clint shuts down his emotional responses all together. Just as carefully he lets dawning horror show on his face, and closes his eyes.
He head-butts Tremblay in the nose. While the man stumbles back, Clint uses the chair to knock out one guard, and with a practiced motion snaps the neck of another. For the last he fires one shot from a dead guard's stolen gun. It's a head shot.
Tremblay is just gaining his feet again, looking at his men with poorly concealed fear. Clint stalks toward him.
"I don't need anyone to come for me." Tremblay goes down with a bullet between the eyes.
Clint leaves a trail of bloody bodies on his route out of the compound. The civilians have already vacated the premises by the time Clint rigs the place to blow, and even if they hadn't, Clint has a bit too much on his mind right now to give a fuck about collateral damage. What's a little more red on his ledger anyway?
In an hour, Clint walks back to the safe house. It's blown of course, but his phone is there and he needs to know for sure. Needs to know if SHIELD is really compromised. His stomach drops when he sees four voicemails and two text messages, all from Natasha. He listens to the voicemails first.
The oldest one is short, but Clint can hear Nat's voice crack when she says Nick's dead and that says everything.
The second one is bit longer. Natasha tells him that HYDRA is inside SHIELD (which Clint can hardly believe), and that the Winter Soldier is on the playing field. She says the latter with fear and awe, but Clint smiles, small and real, for the first time since New York.
In the third, Natasha sounds rushed. She says that Nick is alive and has known about HYDRA for years, and that the Winter Soldier is apparently Steve- Captain America's best friend. Then Nat says that they're going public with SHIELD servers, exposing the HYDRA inside. The message ends there, and Clint is furious. The idea that Nick would conceal that from them, keep them in the dark, for years- And why is the best option they came up with destroying SHIELD too? He wasn't the only agent out in the field, not the only one undercover.
Natasha knew this. Thousands of safe houses, gone, hundreds of covers, blown. Clint doesn't want to think about how many agents are dead, how many weren't able to get out like he did- The amount of life lost is catastrophic. (Clint doesn't acknowledge the fear coursing through his veins, the terror of what he's supposed to do without SHIELD. Twelve years is a long time.)
Clint is furious at her, at everyone really, but he still hits play on the last voicemail. It's from two hours ago.
Natasha is quieter than normal, and Clint can hear the lilt of fear in her voice.
"Clint, it's been four days. I can't leave D.C. to get your ass out of trouble, so you have to do it yourself. I- I didn't realize you were undercover. Call me, as soon as it's safe." A pause. Clint starts to put down the phone, when she speaks again. "Fury was lying to us about something else too. I sent you the link, thought you'd want to know." There's another pause, but shorter. "Come in from the cold, Yastreb. We can all regroup together."
It takes Clint several calming breaths to resist throwing the phone across the room. His hands shake as he scrolls to messages.
The first is a link, and the next a simple I'm sorry.
With trepidation, Clint presses the blue link. The first thing he sees is a date in January of this year, the second: SUPERVISING AGENT: P. Coulson. The third thing? Red.
When he's calmed down enough to think clearly, Clint notices that his phone is shattered in pieces across the room. Funny that, he doesn't remember doing so.
It's no great loss, Clint wasn't planning on going back anyway. He wasn't even before finding out that Phil has been alive all this time. Nat will come looking for him eventually, Clint figures, but he'll be long gone by then. Hawks are meant to hunt alone. Movements mechanical, Clint grabs his duffel and dumps it out onto the cot. With his pocket knife, he slits open one seam and removes a passport and ten thousand dollars. Clint had been at SHIELD to stay, but only an idiot doesn't have an exit strategy. His exit is overdue.
Everything that he doesn't need, or that identifies him, goes. Clint digs out every tracker on every piece of clothing he has, and even digs out the two underneath his skin. Into the pile goes his specially-made field suit, which really is a loss. After a moment of hesitation, of reluctance, Clint lies his collapsible bow and quiver on the top. Hawkeye isn't the most well-known of the Avengers, and no one knows his face and name, but everyone knows the arrows. If he's disappearing they have to go too. So they do.
Clothes, passport, other identification for aliases, and money all go back into the duffel. Clint carefully checks his modified sniper rifle, its case, and several handguns for trackers. He only locates one, in the grip of the agency standard weapon. Clint removes the tracker, and tosses the gun into the duffel with the others. Standing, Clint lets his back pop, and grabs his second personal phone, slipping its halter back around his ankle.
It's nearly indestructible and without fail the screen lights up when Clint turns it on. It flashes with two missed calls, and one voicemail. Closing the safe house door behind him, Clint releases a bit of the anger suffocating him. He raises the phone to his ear and presses play.
Harsh breathing trembles down the line and Clint winces. The call is from earlier today, not long before Natasha had rang. He thinks it must have been bad this time, but Clint is still glad he called. It's been a while, almost four years, but he recognizes the Soldier's voice immediately.
"It's true? What I've been- what I-" A noise is choked off. "I'm coming okay, just- don't go."
Clint strolls out of the safe house, pile of useless things lying abandoned behind him. He can wait. It's what friends do for each other.
Phil Coulson is very much not on his mind.
~~~~
Clint first met the Winter Soldier seventeen years ago. He was nineteen, had already been in the merc business for a few years, made a name for himself. He signed a contract to kill a Russian ambassador at a peace summit. It wasn't normally the type of job that Clint took. He was an assassin, but he only killed who he wanted to. Generally, that was not politicians. However, this ambassador had his fingers in pies so deep that Clint was tempted to change his MO and kill the man slow. On top of selling KGB secrets, which Clint couldn't care less about, he funded a human trafficking ring, a small portion of a terrorist cell, and was a known murderer and rapist.
It would be Clint's pleasure to take him out.
Everything was running smoothly. Clint went up on a roof across from the pavilion where they were holding the summit, and set up. He had identified his target and was only waiting for a clean shot.
A metal hand clamped down on his shoulder, and tossed him off the roof. Clint was shocked. He hadn't heard anything, not a single footstep, and it took a lot to be able to sneak up on him. It was only Clint's time in the circus that saved him, and he latched onto a window sill, using the momentum to gain his feet again. The sight enraged him.
"Get your hands the fuck off my rifle. Now."
When the request met no reaction, Clint repeated himself, this time in Russian. Almost unwillingly the man seemed to raise his head to look at him. Surprisingly blue eyes met his own. The man's expression was blank, no flicker of emotion or irritation. Nothing except violence. Clint couldn't help the twinge of terror and the overwhelming feeling that he was in over his head.
Clint knew that people prayed on fear. He'd been taught that lesson at four and a half, his father standing over him with a broken bottle in one hand, and a belt in the other. Over the years, he's learned this lesson well. None of Clint's terror showed on his face.
Blue Eyes moved before Clint could blink.
A leg swiped at Clint's knees and reflex had him jumping over it. He swayed to the side to avoid the knife Blue Eyes had procured, and wound up for a hit of his own. The man moved impossibly fast. Catching Clint's fist in his own metal one, he used his momentum to flip Clint over his head. The ground smashed excruciatingly into Clint's back, and he groaned. A knife pressed to his throat, Blue Eyes' dark hair falling like a curtain on either side of Clint's vision.
"Please- pozhaluysta. Don't-"
Clint was nineteen and he was going to die at the hands of a Russian assassin. Clint would die as a disgrace and a killer and would never get a chance to redeem himself. He wouldn't even die as Clint, but instead as Hawkeye and- Wait! Was that a red star on the man's mechanical arm?
The knife had already pressed far enough into his skin that a thin trickle of blood tracked down his neck. But all Clint could see was the red star. Leverage.
"Wait, please." He spat out in Russian. "You're Russian, right? Let me guess, you're here to take out Alexandre Vitsin? Me too." The pressure on Clint's throat eased, even if only slightly. It was a start. "You can't kill me, because you need my help." Blue Eyes scoffed.
"Help? I don't need anyone's help. Stick to your own language, boy. Your accent is terrible." The words were English, and Clint hid his surprise. His own Russian had been learned in the circus from an old fortune teller. His accent was impeccable, but Blue Eyes lacked any accent at all, including a Russian one. Clint quelled his flare of curiosity, reminding himself that this man was trying to kill him. Curiosity could be indulged at a later date or not at all.
"Well, if you're gonna be like that-" Clint drawled in English. Blue Eyes failed to even show a flicker of emotion. Something in Clint's gut rolled with fear and apprehension, but he squashed it down. "Vitsin here appears to be either paranoid or tipped-off, because he refuses to give me a clean shot. And let me tell you, my idea of clean shot is broader than most's." There was no response. Clint rolled his eyes. "Unless you can make the shot through 8 to 9 bodies or an twelve inch thick brick wall, you need my help."
If Clint wasn't wrong, a bit of amusement glinted in the man's eyes. It was there and gone before he could blink. Clint got the overwhelming feeling that he had just been given something precious, but he didn't know what.
"Alright. Get up, kid." There was an accent on the words now, faint but there. Clint heard... New York? Graciously, he let himself be pulled to his feet by Blue Eyes.
"Pot, kettle. I bet you can't be more than five years older than me, man." Clint was treated to an eye roll.
"You'd lose that bet, kid." Blue Eyes smirked. It wasn't friendly or nice, but it still put Clint at ease. Emotion was a plus, and besides, Clint recognized that sarcastic humor from his own. He offered his hand.
"I'm Hawkeye, the World's Greatest Marksman. Nice to meet you." The shake was awkward, but he got another sardonically raised eyebrow for his troubles.
"Nice try, kid. I'm the Winter Soldier, the actual Greatest Marksman." Clint shot the Winter Soldier a playful glare.
"After this, I challenge that claim." That got him a chuckle.
"Okay, kid. You go down there and lure him out into the open. I'll take the shot."
"Yeah, no. My rifle, my rules. You go down there and lure him out, I take the shot. I don't trust you not to cut loose ends and just snipe me too."
The Soldier favored him with a look. Clint felt exposed, like his skin was being peeled away.
"Alright, fine. Get ready. And don't miss."
Clint settled down by his rifle as the Soldier disappeared and wondered how he had gotten out of that alive.
*
The distraction worked perfectly, and Clint took the shot as soon as Vitsin came into view.
"Not bad, kid." Clint would deny jumping until his dying day.
The Soldier reclined on the wall behind him. There was a bit of surprise in his tone, and Clint tried not to preen. He couldn't say that he was surprised that the Soldier hadn't trusted him to make the shot. Clint would have done the same thing. Construct the distraction and get back in position in case the other sniper failed. Clint offered his own smirk.
"You think that's good, Soldier? You should see me with my bow." Once again, Clint reveled in the surprise. It wasn't his imagination that the longer Clint watched the Soldier the more human he seemed to get. He took great pains to shove his curiosity by the wayside. The Soldier took a step forward, and Clint tried not to tense obviously. He took the offered hand.
"Call me James. I don't think you're a loose end that needs snipping." The admission relaxed Clint marginally, and inspired him to offer James the same courtesy.
"Good to hear. The name's Clint." James smirked again, and then his expression went completely and eerily blank. Clint stiffened. Life came back into James' eyes slowly but surely. It was more guarded than before.
"I have to go check-in." James turned abruptly around, dropping Clint's hand. "Stay alive Clint, and I might see you around again." What Clint remembered clearest years later, was that the accent had completely dropped from the words. The Soldier disappeared from sight.
It took years for Clint to realize that the only reason he survived that night was his recently dyed blond hair, and blue eyes.
*
Two months later, Clint ran into James on another job. The Soldier tried to kill him, no recognition in his eyes at all.
So started a pattern and a friendship that even Clint found unbelievable.
~~~~
Seventeen years and innumerable deaths later, Clint perches on a ridge above his compromised safe house. It's been 36 hours when he hears a change in the forest behind him. Clint rolls onto his back.
"Hello James."
A man steps out from the shadows, metal arm glowing in the sun.
"I- he called me Bucky." James drifts closer. His voice is hesitant. "I don't- I don't remember it all. Who am I?" Clint pats the ground beside him, and obediently James sinks down. He keeps his gaze on the sky, because Hawkeye sees better from a distance.
"It's been more than three years since you were out. The longer you're in stasis, the harder it is to remember. Give yourself time." Clint hears the sigh from beside him. He aches for his friend, and loathes the men responsible for this, for tearing apart a human and remaking him differently each time. Just different enough that he has to relearn how to live anew. Clint rages and wonders if this will be the time James lets him extract revenge and justice.
"But, Clint," James says his name softly and hesitant. Clint digs his fingers into the dirt to stop from hitting someone. "Who am I? Please, just- just tell me that, yeah?"
Clint closes his eyes.
"You're whoever you want to be. You used to be Bucky, and you used to be the Winter Soldier. It doesn't mean you have to be them anymore. There is no wrong answer. The choice is up to you."
"I don't know." James lies down on his back next to Clint. His metal arm rests against Clint's flesh and blood one.
"Welcome to life."
"Shut up, kid." Clint turns his head and opens his eyes to glare. James has dark circles, greasy hair, and tired eyes.
"I'm 36, dickface!"
James's startled laughter cuts through the night. Clint listens to the sound and smiles. Everything will be okay. It always is.
~~~~
James helps him fake his death. It's a bit of a shoddy job, and anyone looking with a trained eye could see the set up. Clint is relying on the fact that no one will be. Clint goes into town and takes out a low-level drug dealer about his height and build. James helps him sneak the body back to the compromised safe house. Together they watch the inferno, waiting until the cabin is nothing more than a pile of ashes and bones in the middle of the rain forest.
James hasn't said much since his initial arrival, and Clint doesn't push. It's like this every time, the mental anguish, the confusion. This is the longest James has been in cryostasis for decades, but it's also the first time he's really been exposed to someone from his past. It must have been some new, stronger wipe they used if James wasn't aware as soon as he saw Captain America.
Yeah, Clint can't say he was surprised about the Bucky Barnes, Captain America's Best Friend, revelation. They've known for years, or at least Clint has. It's a painful rediscovery for James every time he starts to remember again. Inevitably, he always remembers though. Usually it starts with a name: Steve and leads to inexplicable knowledge about asthma or drawing. Clint had been shocked at first. James had been devastated when he learned just what happened to Captain Rogers. Clint thinks it was a large part of his decision to stay as a tool, a weapon, instead of taking Clint's offer of escape.
By the time Captain America had been found alive, James had already been absent for about a year. Clint was going to tell him immediately, but James had disappeared off the face of the Earth. And then after Loki and New York and Coulson? Well Clint simply had more on his mind than a missing friend.
Later Clint tells James about Coulson, about his death, and James frowns in sympathy and then rage after Clint reveals the lie. When it comes to things about Clint, about their history, James has always been able to remember easier. (James thinks it has to do with how none of the Winter Soldier's handlers had known to wipe him of a smart-ass sniper called Hawkeye. Clint is of the opinion that it has to do with his sheer awesome.) James therefore remembers the name of Clint's personal handler who evolved into his friend who evolved into the person he trusted most in the world and finally into the man Clint had loved beyond anything. Hell, James had even said he enjoyed hearing about Clint's pathetic crush, years ago, before he had taken action.
Now, the righteous anger on his behalf is comforting.
James still hasn't said anything, but it's enough to sit next to the man. To stare into the bottom of his beer with company, while they wait for the next ferry out.
Only once they're on the boat does Clint finally drag his fellow assassin into conversation.
"Did he recognize you?" James knows who Clint's talking about immediately.
"Yeah. But I didn't recognize him until it was nearly too late." Clint can taste the guilt, but knows there's nothing to be said in comfort. Some burdens you have to bear alone.
"So, what now? I thought you would have wanted to stick around, make up for all those lost years?" Clint wiggles his eyebrows unmistakably. The shock years ago was actually that James had been defiling a national icon, before he even was a national icon. At the time, it quelled Clint's worry about whether an old man from the forties would care about his sexuality.
Now, James glares.
"I'm not the man he was in love with. I've done so many terrible things, and I tried to kill him-" James huffs out a bitter laugh. He drags a hand across his face and still too greasy hair. "God knows I didn't deserve him before, and I certainly don't now."
"I don't know James, I think you're quite the catch." Clint teases. At the irritated grumble, he continues on more seriously. "But don't you think Steve should be allowed to decide that for himself?"
"You trying to get rid of me, Barton?" James deflects easily. Clint shakes his head.
"Don't pull that shit with me, Barnes. I know you too well. And I also know that the person that tried to kill Steve wasn't you, not by a long shot."
Clint turns to study his friend's profile. His mouth is permanently down-turned, and the scruffy beard and long hair makes him look like a homeless guy. The blue eyes that had so defined James when they first met are focused on the ocean, watching the waves with a shadowed stare. The metal arm is hidden under a jacket too heavy for the heat and a pair of impractical gloves. James' entire body lifts when he sighs.
"Doesn't change the fact that it happened." James' back bows and he presses his forehead to the cool railing. Clint nudges him softly with a shoulder. "I'm not ready yet, Clint. Okay? So just drop it."
Clint shrugs, and though James doesn't lift his head, Clint knows he can feel the gesture.
"Alright. Question still stands though. What now?" That gets James to straighten.
"He's probably going to come after us, well- me at least, since everyone now thinks you're dead. We should keep on the move, lay some false trails..." James trails off.
"And?" Clint asks. James turns and gives the archer a free and mischievous grin. There's a dark, violent crinkle around his eyes that would send any other person scurrying fear, but instead, Clint feels a rush of adrenaline. That expression means trouble, and god knows Clint needs to blow some shit up. Well, he almost always needs to blow shit up, but still.
"How do you feel about taking down HYDRA, Hawkeye?"
Clint smirks.
"Why, James, I thought you'd never ask!"
*
The first thing they do after they dock is get James a hair cut and shave. Not that Clint doesn't think James pulls off the scruffy homeless look, but it's drawing a lot of attention, even more than their pale skin and impeccable accents. Besides, he needs to change his appearance significantly to throw off the duo soon to be hot on their tail.
Clint pretends not to notice the tension in James's shoulders as he approaches with a pair of scissors.
"So, how short you going, old man?"
"Fuck you." Comes the quick response. Clint smirks, and it's easier with James to pretend that he's not still freaking out. His friend lightens Clint's own burdens with his own. Compared to seventy years of brainwashing, finding out the man he loved had faked his death? Small potatoes.
"You wish, James." Clint says. He dodges the elbow aimed for his stomach and does an internal fist pump at the small loosening of the other assassin's shoulders.
Well, no time like the present.
The scissors snip loudly in the otherwise quiet bathroom, and black hair falls around them like leaves in the fall. Clint snorts at his own comparison, and ignores the glare in the mirror.
"Mind keepin' your eyes on task, Barton? I'd like to be able to be seen in public sometime in the next century." Clint pretends to let the scissors slip and James flinches away immediately. Because he's a good friend, he pretends not to notice the blade that appears in James's hand. Perhaps testing the assassin just broken out of brainwashing is a bad idea.
Not like Clint's known for anything other than terrible ideas anyway.
James ends up with his hair cut shorter on one side, the other side falling down to his newly shaved jawline. It makes him look younger and Clint praises himself. James stares at the mirror.
"It's good, not quite the Winter Soldier." And not quite Bucky either, goes unspoken.
"Damn right it's good, I did it." Clint is bent over the tub of their pay-by-the-hour motel room, the only one in the area, running water over his freshly died hair. It's not much, but it's really all he can do. In anticipation of this, one of his passports is a blonde image of him, name of Harrison White. He doesn't plan on using it much, but just in case. They need to get one for James.
"Well hurry up Blondie, I wanna check out a site just outside of the village. As far as I remember there's a little outpost there. We take that, we find something to move on."
"We're still a little close to my last mission." Clint says. "I think we should get farther before we make a mess. We don't want Nat or Steve connecting the dots between me and you."
James slaps a hand over his heart.
"Why, Clint Barton, are you ashamed of me?" It's teasing sure, but Clint can hear the darker tone just underneath. A kicked dog waiting for its new owner to kick it again. James teases and has most of his memories back, but he's still a damaged supersoldier. A broken ex-Russian assassin. Apparently he's gotten rusty on dealing with those, something he should remedy before it gets him killed. Clint has to be very careful not to break the fragile stability he's helped James achieve. It's a big old middle finger to all the people that couldn't stand a day in his company. Yeah, well guess what, a few days of Clint exposure and he broke through brainwashing. Suck on that.
James says nothing if he recognizes the thoughts flicking through Clint's mind. And for that the archer is grateful.
"You're a pain in my ass, Barnes." Clint releases a weary sigh, mostly for show. The darkness very carefully recedes from James's eyes. He says nothing, because they've spoken more in their silences than they have with their words. "C'mon, let's go kill someone."
*
As it turns out Clint doesn't get to kill anybody.
When James said little, he apparently meant a shack manned by two men, a useless enterprise. James took out both, one with a quick snap of the neck and the other with the knife hidden up his sleeve. Clint tries not to feel bitter. James has a few more issues to work through anyway.
There's a far away look in James's eyes as he washes the blood off his hands in the shack's small sink. The water is a murky brown, turned nearly black with the blood sluicing through James's fingers. Clint turns to give him privacy, focusing on the small computer terminal. He doesn't know where James's mind is right now, and he doesn't want to. There are some bears better left unpoked.
Clint breaks into the laptop easily enough. He's no Tony Stark, but he's not terrible with computers. Natasha's a bit better, but he's great at finding information quickly. 2 out of 3 missions usually involve a computer now-a-days. It's sink or swim, and Clint's never been one for getting left behind.
James watches over his shoulder after awhile and Clint doesn't let it bother him. He feels the tension and barely controlled violence still strumming through the man, but trusts James to leash it. They won't get anywhere without James remembering that Clint trusts him.
"Is this what you're looking for?" Clint asks, staring at a map of Africa and Western Asia, pockmarked with varying stars.
"Yes. These are the sites of HYDRA operations. I'm not sure how outdated this is, but I remember a mission out of this one," Here James stretches over Clint's shoulder and presses a finger to a star on the coast of India. "Sometime after the turn of the millennia." Clint nods.
"'03, I remember." Clint clicks the button to print. The dusty machine begins the process reluctantly. In fact, he recognizes a lot of these locations. At the time, he'd met with the Winter Soldier in what seemed like random places all over the globe. Now, it makes sense, those moments when he slipped off the radar or took brief leave to meet his friend. Overall, there aren't as many stars as Clint would have thought. Obviously HYDRA hasn't taken complete control over this part of the world yet.
"How much do you remember, Barton?" Clint does his best not to stiffen, noticing the sharpness of the words, the distinct lack of the accent that had been steadily reemerging. He reminds himself that James is the Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes and that all three are volatile and confused and hurting. None of them are going to hurt him.
"Probably more than you." Clint stands and turns in time to catch the flinch. James has taken a step back, his expression unreadable. He doesn't know what Bucky, Steve's best guy would have wanted to hear, and the Winter Soldier can be incapable of true want, but James- James is sick of lies. James only wants the truth, even if only to cut his hands on it.
Sometimes the pain is all that focuses you.
"I don't- I don' really remember it all." The metal hand scratches at shortened hair. The accent is back, thick and strong. "I get flashes, lot of it barely anythin'. I remember before easier, with Steve and Brooklyn and the war- that's easier." Clint nods.
"Yeah, easier and probably better." He settles to lean against the desk, forcibly making his posture submissive. Trusting. James's eyes flick over him, and the part of him that is always the Winter Soldier relaxes visibly. Clint continues. "I don't know all the shit that went down, James, but I know there was a hell of a lot of it. Few times you never found the number on the arm to call, other times I was tied up with SHIELD, couldn't come to say hello." The words are bubbling up out of his throat now, and Clint can't control them. He's been angry so long and now it's escaping him in what he says. It's like watching a train wreck, inevitable and wild. Clint smiles self-deprecatingly, with a touch of cruelty. "Sometimes I didn't get there in time and you were already gone, kicking and screaming without me to remind you that you were human. Sometimes you were covered in blood, just covered in it and I had to wash it off of you by hand. Sometimes you just cried and sometimes-"
James moves too quickly and violently for Clint to stop him. He wouldn't anyway. He hasn't been the only one holding things in. All either needed is a spark.
His back bounces off the wall, shoddy desk collapsing. The computer goes down in sparks and Clint takes a moment to be grateful that they already had the information they needed, before a metal arm slams into his throat. It hurts sure, but Clint takes comfort in the fact that his assault is planned carefully. He's not hurt, barely bruised, and he breathes long and slow around the metal compressing his windpipe. James snarls in his face, and in any other situation this position would be intimate.
Clint can feel his friend, wavering on a ledge, forced onto it by the weight of the memories he's been rediscovering and the crimson still under his fingernails. Clint lets himself hang and doesn't fight. James can take what he needs, take all that he has to give, it's fine. It's always fine.
"Why did you leave me in there? How could you let them do that to me? Why didn't you save me if I'm your friend?" The metal arm pushes harder. "Why?" Clint can taste the anger and the fear and the grief. The confusion and the desperation. The accusations that Clint has been waiting for. These things, these heavy weights were something that no brainwashing could take away. They are but another world that has rested on Clint's shoulders for years and years and years. James is taking them now, inadvertently lightening Clint's burden and it's wonderful. He closes his eyes.
"I tried, and you wouldn't let me." The confession tastes like release. "I tried so many fucking times! I tried attacking bases and you declared them compromised and got them moved! I tried kidnapping you, so many times it wasn't even funny, but you always got away. I couldn't stop them or you, because you thought it was what you deserved." Clint exhales shakily. "You don't remember every time I tried? All the times you fought with me?" The metal arm has fallen away and Clint is on his own two feet but the words don't stop coming. James wanted the truth, and the truth cuts, but this- this is like a massacre. Too much truth. Too much blood.
"Maybe. Maybe it would have been different if Steve was alive, in fact I'm sure it would have. But you had no interest in a world without him and were convinced that you deserved this as your punishment. So I fought for you and I tried and I failed and I kept your existence a secret because you begged me to. I failed you just like I fucking failed Coulson and Nat and New York and now you're finally paying attention enough to realize it." Clint opens his eyes and meets blue. His greatest fear, and his greatest weakness. He sees nothing but a lake and the overwhelming blankness of water undisturbed.
"I claim to be your friend, but I never did enough, and I can never make up for that. I left you in a hellhole, abandoned you every other month. So, if you're going to kill me, it's justified, and I suggest you do it now, before my survival instinct kicks back in." Clint stands his ground. "I don't remember it all, and neither do you yet, but I remember enough. I didn't save you, and here we are."
The silence stretches between them, a heavy living thing. Neither of them moves. Clint's knees feel shaky and his whole being unsure, but he's said the words now and if he's going to die, he's going to do it on his own two feet goddammit. James, or maybe it's all the Winter Soldier, moves, and Clint braces himself. But he walks in the other direction.
"I need to think."
And he's gone.
Clint kneels in the wreckage of the shack, two dead bodies and furniture staring at him accusingly. He thinks of an assassin seventeen years ago, letting him live, and of a SHIELD Agent six years later doing the same. He thinks of a voice on the comms saying 'Talk to me Barton' and lips mumbling 'Talk to me Clint' into his bare shoulder. He thinks of nights spent staring at the knife on his bed table, and words choked off for a person who isn't there anymore. He thinks of emptiness and recovery and lying and Phil Coulson. He thinks of what his lover would say about the situation he's gotten himself into and the secret he's always kept.
Clint doesn't need to think, doesn't want to think. And yet, he can't seem to stop doing it.
~~~~
James appears by Clint's side as he prepares to board an unregistered ship headed for India. It's two days later, and Clint hasn't seen a hint of the other man since the shack, but he hands him a ticket without comment.
They don't talk about it, but they do talk. They relax around each other again. Something in Clint's stomach, which he hadn't been aware of, unknots itself. On day two of their voyage, as they stare out at the ocean lost in their separate thoughts, James speaks and doesn't look at Clint.
"I don't blame you and I'm not angry."
"I'm still so angry and you're the only one close enough to take it out on."
That's that, and they don't need to talk about it again.
~~~~
They disembark in India and destroy the HYDRA base there in less than a week.
Everyone, everything, dead or destroyed. They leave the base in flames behind them, a new target secured in hand.
Clint and James move like ghosts. They've always been known as snipers, but the mistake is thinking that's all they are. Either could topple governments if they chose, and together they are unstoppable. When Clint worked with Coulson and Natasha they were seamless and deadly. With James, they both have no restraint and far too many issues to work through. HYDRA doesn't stand a chance.
It helps that HYDRA's already taken some hits, with SHIELD collapsing and the remaining agents having only one goal in mind. It's helps that no one sees Barnes and Barton coming. But most of it is them, them and explosives and ammunition. Nothing helps you get over heartbreak like tearing an evil organization to the ground. Nothing helps you get over brainwashing like blowing up the people who did it to you.
Clint hasn't had this much fun in years.
*
Bases and armies fall like dominoes waiting to be chopped down. James has serum-tainted blood pumping through his veins, and Clint has perfect aim and impossible agility on his side. It shouldn't be so easy but it is, and enemy agents are cut down like wet newspaper. Every dead body feels a little like absolution and neither man can tell you for what.
They move through Asia and Africa with ease, barely breaking a sweat. They are quick and unpredictable and no one, nothing, stands a chance. Clint and James take advantage of the three people chasing the Winter Soldier (Steve, Natasha, and some other guy called Sam). The trail is obvious and bloody, but the trio is good about cleaning up the mess left behind. It leaves Clint and James sure of their work and allows them to move through countries even quicker.
A few weeks in, and James acquires a notebook. Clint doesn't ask, but when James isn't paying attention he pockets it. It's a list of memories, events, people. Some Winter Soldier stuff, but mostly from before that, mostly of Steve. James regains so much that one notebook becomes two becomes a half-dozen concealed in the lining of his duffel bag.
He's remembering and the worst thing, Clint thinks, would be forgetting again.
When he returns the notebook to James, his friend says nothing. It's unspoken, but James doesn't go anywhere without a piece of paper, and he'll stop what he's doing immediately to write in it. There was a rush of things at first, so much that it seemed James was always writing, but now it's mostly tapered off.
James doesn't mention it at all, but he's looser now, sure of himself again. It's only been a few months but suddenly Clint has a friend who's aware and even better to be around. James is damaged sure, but so is Clint, so is everyone in their business. It's been apparent for weeks that he's nearly all there again. He slips out at nights sometimes, more and more frequently, and when Clint tailed him, all James did was watch Steve. Clint had slipped away and come to peace with the idea that James was almost done running, almost ready to embrace his past.
He introduces himself as Bucky now, to contacts and strangers and little old ladies. In every language and country and across Europe he is Bucky. To Clint he's still James but to the rest of the world, Bucky Barnes exists again.
Clint splits his time between complete joy and an aching loneliness.
As the months have gone on and James has gotten looser, Clint has wound tighter and tighter. He's going to break and James deserves to be far away in the aftermath. But he stays and they continue taking down HYDRA and his partner takes him to get numbingly drunk on Phil's birthday. They're careful, because as far as they know no one suspects Clint's involvement, but in a shitty bar in Paris it all spills out of him. James listens and pours him shot after shot as Clint talks about Phil in the morning, and tearing down junior agents, and late at night wrapped around Clint as he cooked dinner. He talks and doesn't cry, because his eyes have been dry for two years. James listens.
Afterwards, James lugs his ass back to their hotel room and tucks him into bed. His eyes are dark and heavy and old and Clint remembers suddenly that the man before him has lived more than 90 years.
"You'll forgive him, ya know. People do stupid things for each other, because we love like children."
Clint drifts off, protest dying on his lips. All he can think is of how Natasha had told him something similar but so different.
He wonders who taught her the words and if she'd only remembered wrong.
~~~~
Together, Clint and James have done as much as two people can do, and much more that they couldn't. But the strongholds left, the bits of HYDRA still breathing, can't be handled by only two people.
It's the end of line.
Clint knows it, James knows it.
They lay a dozen false trails and drop off the map. The trio still doggedly following them doesn't stand a chance when Clint and James are actually trying. Natasha could probably track them, but she's become complacent by how easy the Winter Soldier has apparently made it so far. Clint was counting on it and she came through. They slip away and board a flight for New York with no one the wiser.
(He tries not to think about the dark circles under Nat's eyes and the way she is yet to take off her arrow necklace. Steve and this Falcon guy treat her like she's fragile, about to break, and Clint is afraid she is. When the guilt overwhelms him, because most of his anger isn't at her, he reminds himself that Nat undoubtedly figured out that he isn't really dead. Right?)
Their last destination is in New York for two reasons. One, James wants to see Brooklyn before he embraces his identity and past completely. Two, there is absolutely no HYDRA base in the vicinity. Clint and James deserve one vacation, alright?
Of course, life hates them both.
Within twelve hours Clint and James, both with nothing more than a handgun and several throwing knives, are fighting in the streets of Brooklyn.
They'd gone walking, unassuming and anonymous. New York is always good for disappearing. Sometime in the afternoon they'd wandered into a little coffee shop, intending on just getting a pastry and a drink. Of course, someone turns on the news to show what Clint dubbed hippo-bots attacking the city. What looks like Iron Man, Thor and the Hulk are running around smashing the metallic monsters. The hippo things mostly seem to revel in trampling everything, people included.
Barely two minutes later, the screaming and smashing starts nearby. Clint shoots James a look, half incredulous, half wryly amused.
"This is a fucking nightmare, please tell me it is." James doesn't remove his own shocked gaze from the storefront window. The rest of the shop's patrons are huddled behind the counter, New Yorkers having already developed a survival instinct.
"This is actually unbelievable. We ain't even been in the city a day."
James finally turns to make eye contact and they share a hysterical giggle.
"Wanna go kick some hippo-bot ass?" And wow, Clint really didn't think he'd ever be saying that. James grins at him, obviously thinking the same.
"You sure, Clint? Doin' this will probably guarantee what's left of SHIELD bringin' us in." Clint rolls his eyes.
"We can't just sit back and let people be squished to death by rampaging hippo-bots, James. And besides we were gearing up for this anyway." James shrugs. Once again, Clint admires the levity James has managed to achieve. Clint is a killer yeah, but also a goddamn awesome therapist.
"I'm in if you're in."
"Then let's kick some ass."
A panicked voice comes from behind them. A quick glances tells Clint that it's the cashier, huddled where she had been taking their orders only a minute before.
"Sirs! Please, come behind the counter! You're going to get yourselves killed!"
Clint grins at the woman, pulling out his gun from where it was tucked into his waistband, sure that James was doing the same. Her eyes widen, before she ducks even farther under cover.
Following James out the door, he calls back over his shoulder,
"Don't worry ma'am, this is our job."
James's laughter echoes in his ear as he flicks the comm unit on. A week in and they had been a necessity. Clint's practically hasn't left his ear since. It was a knock-off Stark piece, perfect for both of them.
The hippo-bot things are surprisingly easy to take down. All thick armor and heavy metal leads to a robot that can neither move very quickly or attack worth anything. One hit can drop them, if it's in the right place. James and Clint are excellent at hitting the target.
They move in opposite directions, cordoning off the streets they've already cleared by the creative taking down of the robots. They can't climb worth a damn, so a barricade of deactivated metal leaves a wall of protection for civilians.
Even if they're relatively easy to destroy, there's still what seems like hundreds of them. Over the comm unit James and Clint don't say much. Except of course for their running tally. It became a competition somewhere in China, whoever managed to take down the most targets gets a free drink. They're split almost even overall, James having a slight lead due to the advantage of the metal arm. Today Clint is ahead, his impeccable aim getting a workout.
"23, bitches!" Clint shouts over the comms, laughing as he propels himself off one hippo-bot onto the back of another. One carefully placed foot and it goes down with a shudder. "24!"
There's a puff of exertion over the line. Halfway through James's response there's a click on the line, barely audible but there. Clint brushes it off as nothing but interference. They're in the city after all.
"Shut up, you ain't doin' that great. I have 21, Hawkass."
Clint laughs, free and amused. Taking down these things isn't a challenge, it's actually fun. What does it say about his life that malevolent hippo shaped robots are fun?
"You gotta keep up, old man."
A voice that isn't James's explodes over the comm.
"Clint?!"
Clint grinds to a halt. It's only his quick reflexes that stop him from becoming hippo food.
"Stark?"
"You're supposed to be dead!" Clint snorts. He takes down another hippo-bot with his throwing knife and makes his way over to collect it.
"How did you get on this frequency?" Tony huffs at the question.
"We were trying to get the authorities, I told JARVIS to piggyback the strongest signal. That doesn't clarify you being dead, Hawkeye!"
"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." There's a sound over the comm from Tony. It's between a growl and scoff, and sounds alarmingly like a strangled cat. James muffles a snicker and butts in.
"Not that I ain't enjoyin' this little reunion, but you containin' your block okay, Clint?" The archer doesn't even get a chance to reply before Stark is interrupting again. He sounds just as put out.
"We mourned you, you bastard! Cap and Romanoff think it's their fault!" Clint abruptly sobers.
"I didn't die, sure, but dozens of other good agents did because of what they chose. Families torn apart Stark. They had no chance." Clint hears JARVIS interrupt to inform Tony of a heavy hippo-bot location. Tony takes no time to respond.
"They had no choice! It was the only way- Fury lied!" James's snort is deadly, and all Winter Soldier. Clint's voice is nearly as icy.
"Oh yes. I've found out all about how the Director lied." Clint lightens his voice, but knows someone as smart as Tony won't be fooled. "Is he running the op right now, by any chance?" Tony's silence is heavy, weighted. He doesn't need to say anything.
"Clint..."
Abruptly Clint is done. He can't afford this distraction right now. Clint's fighting hippo-bots and undoubtedly falling behind in number taken down. He doesn't need the image of a suit and crow's feet blinding him. No, not now.
"Anyway, if you want to know what we've been doing, well we've been taking down HYDRA. James and I both had some issues to work out, and let me tell you-"
Once again, another choking sound. Clint wonders if Tony has ever been struck speechless this many times in a single conversation before.
"James?! I don't suppose you mean, James Barnes, Steve's best friend who was brainwashed by the soviets and HYDRA. James Barnes, whom he is currently chasing across Europe. You couldn't possibly mean him."
Clint picks off two hippo-bots, smiling the grim smile of one preparing for pain. Any actual amusement had fled as soon as Stark brought up Fury. James clears his throat.
"Hiya, Bucky Barnes at your service. I was having some identity issues, but I'm pretty swell now!"
Okay, the noise Tony makes warrants an actual laugh. Maybe everything won't be that bad. Maybe.
*
Okay, Clint lied, everything is definitely that bad.
Thor and Tony flew James and Clint back to the Tower, which is apparently the new-SHIELD's headquarters. Then, after an exhausted scolding and subsequent hug from Bruce, James and Clint were sent to separate rooms and interrogated. Both of them made known that they were not happy about that fact, but their protests were steamrolled and ignored. Last Clint saw, James was being ushered into a room by a glaring Maria Hill. Clint has his own glaring to deal with.
From Director Fury.
The man is crediting his name, and as far as Clint can remember more angry than the archer has ever seen him before. A vein pulses above his one eye, which is narrowed in rage.
"Care to explain yourself Agent Barton?" It's quiet and unassuming, but masking so much vitriol that Clint is surprised he doesn't wither on the spot. He half paid attention to the rant and lecture about him going rogue, and betraying SHIELD. The bullshit about working with a known enemy. Clint honestly can't care. The past few months have hardened him. He meets the Director's stare head on.
"Last I checked, SHIELD doesn't exist anymore. So that means I'm not your agent, Nick." Clint can practically hear the teeth grinding. He takes care to make his tone as insolent as possible. He's half expecting Fury to draw his sidearm and shoot him on the spot.
"You didn't think to check-in? Instead the first thing you do is fake your death and act like some vigilante!" Clint straightens up in his seat, and levels his own glare.
"No, sir, I didn't. Seeing as immediately after Nat told me SHIELD was gone, I got to read online about Agent Coulson being alive and kicking." If the Director ever flinched, that's what it would look like.
"Barton-"
"No. I don't think so. You fucking lied to me for two years. You let me think he was dead, Nick." Clint shoots the Director a smirk. It's an empty and terrible thing. "You're lucky I turned my attention to HYDRA, instead of hunting you down and putting a bullet in your skull."
Fury sits back. Well, he was obviously stupid enough to not expect Clint's bluntness. He regroups quickly, to his credit.
"Barton, I had no choice the team wasn't meshing I needed-"
Clint cuts him off.
"Something to motivate us. I respect that, things done in the heat of battle mean nothing. But afterwards. You could have told me!"
The Director narrows his one eye.
"We lost him six times in the first week alone. I didn't want to tell you he was alive just to be made a liar, agent. When we finally stabilized him he was in a coma for three months, and might have been even longer if not for Asgard."
Clint's blood boils.
"You didn't tell me and you let me think he was dead, Nick." Clint makes sure to look him in the eye. He hopes it unnerves Fury, this result of what he did. "I'll never forgive you."
"I don't need your forgiveness." Is the immediate reply. Clint sits back. No matter what the Director says, he refuses to say another word.
*
Eventually James and Clint are removed to a room out of the way. Clint doesn't bother to ask the other man how his conversation with Hill went, the pinched look around his eyes is telling enough.
Clint sharpens a knife that the search failed to take from him against a wall. He's not far from the entrance, but out of sight. James sleeps on the couch, but wakes up immediately at the sharp, efficient rapping on the door. Clint closes his eyes, the sound of the knuckles hitting the wood painfully familiar. He won't open the door, he can't.
James shoots him a dirty look, but goes to answer it anyway.
"Can I help you?" James's voice is openly hostile. Phil's voice, when he answers, is calm and unruffled, like it's just a normal conversation.
It's childish and stupid and ineffective, but Clint presses his hands over his ears and scrunches his eyes tighter. The voice stabs him anyway, stakes him through the heart.
"Yes. I'd like to speak with Agent Barton."
There's silence and even though Clint tries not to, he can picture it all too clearly. James wearing a considering look, judging a middle aged man in a black suit, unassuming to the core but oh so dangerous and with eyes as blue-
"You're him aren't you. Agent Coulson." James, always so smart. Clint had never even showed him a picture.
"I am. May I speak with Agent-" James cuts him off harshly.
"Clint doesn't want to talk to you." Clint curls up tighter, knife forgotten on the floor, arms dropped from his ears to curve around his knees. He thought it had stopped hurting but he was wrong, because this feels like losing Phil all over again.
"If you'd let me explain-" Once again James cuts Phil off. It's bravery. No one else would be stupid enough to cut off Agent Coulson not once, but twice.
"Listen, buddy, I don' think you need to do very much explainin'. Clint loved you, probably still does, and you let him think you were dead, that he'd killed you, for two years." Still loved Phil, definitely, because there is no other reason this hurt so much. Clint wants to run to Phil and never let him go. He wants to run to Phil and punch him in the face.
"I had no choice." Clint chokes back an angry sob through force of will. James is obviously as convinced as him.
"We always have a choice, and you made the wrong one. You're lucky I don' beat the shit outta you for what you put him through."
"I did it to protect him!" The shout is unexpected and not very Phil-like. Almost involuntarily Clint finds himself drawn to his feet and into the doorway. He catches a glimpse of Phil and everything else falls away. He looks thinner and older than Clint remembers him, and years more exhausted. It's like a physical shock, seeing him alive and irritated. It's so unreal, that Clint is pretty sure he isn't breathing until he meets Phil's eyes.
"Clint?" James looks cautious, wary. He hasn't removed himself from between Phil and the archer. Clint watches all this from the corner of his eye, because his own haven't left Phil's since he met them. He can't make himself look away.
"I've got this, James. You can go away now." Clint isn't sure how his voice is so steady. He's shaking apart inside.
"Ungrateful child." He hears muttered as his friend stomps away. But nothing matters except Phil, alive and staring right back at him.
It's with great effort that Clint tears his gaze away. He forces it to the floor, denying himself the urge to look up and check that Phil is really there. It's the closest they've been in two years.
"Why are you here?" It scrapes out rawly. He can hear Phil swallow.
"I thought- you were dead Clint. And I had to- I had to see if you were really here."
Clint's laugh is hysterical.
"Yeah, thinking the person you love is dead isn't all that fun is it?" Clint looks up in time to catch Phil's flinch. He reaches an arm out, and Clint jerks back, out of reach. Phil closes his eyes, and it's an unbearably tired gesture. The part of him that isn't raging, that isn't broken and yearning for understanding, that small part that just loves Phil unconditionally, always, screams at him. Clint's own fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and comfort. He reminds himself that it isn't an option. When Phil opens his eyes again, it's clear he's made a decision.
"When I was conscious and strong enough to move around, Nick offered me a choice. It had been almost four months since New York, and the peak of the government investigation was underway. He was protecting you, because it was Loki's fault but if I wanted him to keep protecting you I had to do something for him." Phil breathes. "I couldn't tell you I was alive, could tell no one. You'd all be safe but I had to play ghost. Fury wanted me to build a team, a mobile response team of SHIELD agents for the odd things. It was temporary he said, and then I could tell you. A short term assignment." Phil meets Clint's eyes briefly before looking away.
"I could barely walk, and I had months of physical therapy ahead of me. I couldn't get out of the facility, didn't even know where I was." A sigh. "I agreed. It was all I could think to do. I agreed and it wasn't short term and you still thought I was dead. Then SHIELD was gone, along with most of my team, and most importantly, you were dead." Finally, finally, Phil holds Clint's gaze. "To be honest, I'm half convinced you aren't actually here."
"That's funny, me too."
And then they're kissing.
He lunged first, Clint thinks, because Phil is pressed between him and the wall. He registers dimly that one of his hands is pulling all too hard on the other man's hair and that the second is crinkling Phil's suit beyond repair. To Phil's credit, the hand that grips Clint's jaw is one step away from leaving bruises.
Most of the action is tongue and lips and teeth however. It's rough and dirty and a little bit painful. It is a first kiss after two years and numerable deaths. It's only appropriate that it taste of blood.
Clint dominates at first, nipping at Phil's lips until his tongue is allowed entrance. Plundering the older man's mouth to the sound of a faint whimper. But Phil doesn't stay down long, he never does. He pushes back, his lips and tongue equally insistent until Clint concedes. If the archer thought Phil would slow things down, he was wrong, because Phil's other hand comes up to bury in Clint's hair, tugging on the short strands with painful ferocity. Clint moans into the heat of his mouth, panting and laid bare. Together they break apart, gasping, foreheads leaned against each other. Neither one relinquishes his grip on the other. Their eyes are opened and locked, a million words and arguments and conversations spoken in the flicker of their glances.
"You should know," Clint whispers, "That I can never forgive you."
Phil's eyes close briefly; there is nothing but acceptance when they open.
"I can never expect you too." Clint kisses away the words until both their lips are red and swollen. He is still so angry and tired and hurt but he kisses Phil anyway because that's all he knows how to do. Phil kisses back because that's all he has to give.
*
Clint tries not to wring his hands, but his eyes flicker to the door every few seconds, anxiety rendering him twitchy. James has shot him dirty look after dirty look, but the man himself is guilty of his own nervous tick. His flesh thumb rubs at the pad of his metal one, rubs it smooth. Tony hasn't stolen James and his arm yet, but it's only a matter of time.
For now, they stand in a different room of the Tower, silent and waiting. Natasha and Steve were called the day before, and should be arriving any minute. Clint swallows down the urge to bolt. He watches James do the same.
Phil sits in the room too, in the back working on paperwork. Clint can't stand to look at him, burns with his closeness. But he equally can't let Coulson out of his sight, aches with fear every time he leaves the room. Worrying about Natasha's reaction is easier.
"Natalia is going to have your head, Clint." He jumps as James breaks the silence. Clint dredges up a weak glare and then,
"Steve is going to give you head, James."
Phil releases a choking sound from behind them, but before he can comment the door flies open.
Natasha and Steve stand in the entrance. Immediately, Natasha's eyes alight on Clint.
The bags are heavier up close, and she looks unbearably tired. When she catches a glimpse of the archer, that all changes. Clint can practically see her brain working through it and deciding on the appropriate reaction. Her fist is flying towards his face before he can raise an arm to defend himself. Clint wouldn't bother anyway.
Natasha connects with his jaw, pain lancing through his face. Clint's head jerks back, and he lets the hit take him down, because that's the only thing a hit from Natasha does. Her rage is a palpable thing, dangerous and righteous and deadly. Clint should have known better, should never have messed with a spider. Small and deceptively delicate hands grip his left shoulder, as if only saying hello, and wrench it out of its socket. The shout of pain is involuntarily.
"Natasha!" Several voices scream. Clint doesn't fight and lets her rage find its outlet. Exquisite points of pain dart out from his body, carefully aimed fingers working for maximum effect. This a balm all it's own, what Clint has been waiting for. Punishment exacted perfectly.
People are clawing at her, not James, Clint notes. Trying desperately to pull her off. Clint doesn't assist. He lies there and takes it, takes it until Natasha's breathing is harsh and wet into his neck. Until her hands are holding on rather than inflicting pain. Clint takes it as his due and then wraps his good arm around her, rocking and gentle.
"I am sorry, my little spider." Clint says into her hair. Whisper-soft Russian and her hands grip tighter. Natasha allows the contact for ten, fifteen seconds. It has barely been a minute since she entered the door. Natasha mutters Yastreb into his skin, and climbs to her feet. Through a dissipating haze of pain, Clint watches her stalk over to James.
"Natalia." He acknowledges. The slap rings through the room. Clint winces.
"We are going to have words, James." Her voice is scolding, and the infamous Winter Soldier ducks his head. Rubs at his cheek and meekly replies,
"Yes, ma'am." There's a scoff on his left, and suddenly another, unknown man is crouching beside Clint.
"Crazy-ass Russian assassins, man. What are you gonna do?" Clint quickly glances away from the spectacle and takes the offered hand. "Sam Wilson, some people call me Falcon." Clint grins.
"Nice to meet you. Clint Barton, Hawkeye, some people call me a pain in the ass. Wanna help me pop my shoulder back into place?"
There's a huff of air from behind him, Phil no doubt. Wilson just rolls his eyes and does as asked, while Clint curses. Natasha comes to stand over his other shoulder, her warmth sure and missed behind him.
Steve, who Clint just now pays attention to, has his eyes locked on James. He can't seem to look away.
James clears his throat.
"Hiya, punk. Sorry about trying to kill you, but would you believe me if I said I wasn't myself?" James's eyes are dancing, and he licks his lips. Clint's watching for it, so he sees the way Steve's eyes flicker downwards and then up again guiltily.
"Bucky, you jerk." Steve says aghast, and James's mouth turns up into a smirk that Clint has come to fear.
Before anything else can be said, 200 pounds of supersoldier is flying across the room and slamming into James. Clint can safely admit that the clash of tongues and lips is a little bit arousing. He's secure in his bisexuality, okay?
The room drops into dead silence, except for the sounds of sucking and smacking flesh, and several strangled noises. Clint looks around, startled at the number of faces painted in utter shock. Wilson and Coulson appear to be the source of the choking noises, even if Phil gets himself under control quickly. Even Natasha has an eyebrow raised, her lips tightened in surprise. Clint groans in exasperation.
"You've got to be shitting me. Steve calls James his best friend and his everything. They're sexually repressed from the forties. How did you not translate that into intense gay lover?" Three sets of skeptical eyes turn to Clint. He rolls his own.
"Clint, darling, I would love to know how you came to be friends with James, and neglected to tell me anything." Natasha's voice is sickly sweet and Clint flinches away.
"It's a long story?" He tries. Natasha's smile has all too many teeth.
Steve and James are still kissing, and look as if they have no intention of stopping. Neither of Steve's hands are visible, thank god, but James's metal one has snaked down Steve's back to grab a handful of his ass. Clint can't blame him, because Captain America's suit displays just what a fine butt Steve possesses. He'd be grabbing a handful of that too.
Clint wolf-whistles.
"Told you so, James! Making up for all those lost years."
A muffled "Fuck you, Barton" makes it through the sounds of enthusiastic kissing and Clint laughs. A free hand comes up to flip him off, James's metal one never loosening it's hold. Clint is almost jealous of the impressive ability to hold their breath that both enhanced men show.
He clambers to his feet, assisted by a still flabbergasted Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff. Phil doesn't touch him, doesn't cross that line, but he can feel the warmth of his palm, hovering above the small of his back. Clint lets himself lean into it for just a second. He blocks out the maelstrom of emotions that the touch evokes, and just feels.
It's not okay. Clint hasn't forgiven Phil, and Natasha hasn't forgiven him. Steve and James have seventy years of issues to work through, and SHIELD is rebuilding from the ground up. Nothing will ever go back to normal, but maybe, just maybe, they can reach a new balance.
Maybe they can make a new normal and maybe they can all be happy.
THE END