Slight Return

by Nny

Summary:

The strange thing is that Barton ought to be an unremarkable man. He has no superpowers, no enhancements, no complicated vengeful backstory, or at least not one that was mentioned in his file. What he seems to have - helping his neighbour upstairs with her groceries, or stopping a mugger, or fighting against Doombots with the Avengers and putting himself at unacceptable risk - is an unshakeable loyalty and a dented moral compass that nonetheless always points him right.

It's intriguing. Confusing. Fascinating in ways that the Soldier has no idea how to explain.

So instead he reports back on the harmless details; the dog, the range, the dull gold ring on the fourth finger of Barton's left hand.

Notes:

Inspired by art from the_problem_with_stardust, which I will link to as soon as it’s posted. With thanks to Amy for excellent beta and CB for encouragement.

The concrete is cold underneath him, and the Soldier has been ignoring increasingly demanding bodily functions for the better part of an hour, now, but the dialogue from Dog Cops is drifting through the open sash window in the building opposite, and the Soldier has become disconcertingly invested in the fate of Detective Bingo.

There are certain things that hold within them the rhythm of repetition - the Chair, training, briefings and orders - but this time he emerged from the chair to flickering lights and showering sparks and panicking technicians, and the weeks since have been curious. Uninterrupted curiosity. He has been carrying out his mission, and he has been returning regularly to base for maintenance and to report in, but he has also learned things about himself and the world around him which he has been allowed to keep.

The Winter Soldier likes frappuccinos. Sunrises from park benches. Bhangra music. Plums.

The Winter Soldier does not like mango or microwave burritos or Macklemore or crowds.

The Soldier cannot remember having preferences before.

Preferences feel - tentative, like rooftops and standing on ice. He is careful not to share them, and he is careful not to allow them to affect him, and he is careful to share his time out when undertaking his mission. And yet he still schedules his investigations so that he ends each day here.

His handlers want to know about the Avengers. His handlers seem… unused to having an asset like the Soldier, and the fear they carry in every line of them would suggest that he is not often used as an investigative tool. He watches Tony Stark play to crowds from rooftops, and watches Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson run down dawn-warmed streets, and catches glimpses of the Widow, very much getting the impression that she allows herself to be seen. He observes how Wanda Maximoff is teaching a robot about New York and about how to live in it, and the lessons he sees settle awkwardly into a hollow in the Soldier’s chest.

Every evening, though, he pulls on a battered hooded sweater so he might more easily escape notice on the rattling train, watching the sun settle slowly behind skyscrapers and avoiding anyone’s eyes. It is no doubt dangerous to catch the same train, risks recognition, but this way he can observe the Avenger returning from his daily routine, get an impression of his experiences and his mood from the way he mounts the building’s stairs.

Clint Barton. Hawkeye. The Soldier’s standing date.

 

*

 

There was nothing to differentiate him from the others at first. He was a part of the mission but not outstanding within it.

At first, the Soldier had been more intrigued by Steve Rogers. Captain America, born too long ago to be anything like average, and with a face that was familiar in ways the Soldier didn't understand. He had been easy to track down, his schedule unvarying, and the Soldier had spent longer than was mission critical watching him sit and sketch people in the park. Emotions were difficult without understanding the context in which they manifested themselves; the Soldier knew that his reactions were not optimal, but not how or why. It was difficult to label the discomfort he felt when watching Steve Rogers, because 'hollowed out eggshell' probably didn't count as a mood.

It was after a tumultuous day watching Steve that he had first observed Barton. He'd been limping home with an armful of groceries, blood in his hair and a slight frown tilting his mouth. Barton had lost a carton of eggs in his clumsiness holding the door open for an old woman with a cat on a leash, and the resignation on his face had been a little difficult not to look away from. The Soldier had intended to watch the man for a couple of hours and then move on to Lang, only something about the slow, shuffling, strangely familiar routine - heating himself up some dinner, sorting through his mail, settling down to Dog Cops on the sofa - had kept the Soldier watching until Barton had fallen asleep.

Over time, the Soldier finds that Barton is a little more difficult to track down during the day, as his schedule varies entirely according to his mood. Some days involve a manic, restless energy, and Barton visits an archery range, or Stark Tower, or climbs trees in the park. Some days he straps on a tool belt and visits different apartments in his building - the security is a joke, Barton's far too easily watched from fire escapes and neighbouring buildings, and the Soldier is a little tempted to leave a note.

Some days seem heavier than others. On those days, Barton doesn't tend to leave his bed. The Soldier dislikes those days.

On the days he's out of the house, though his schedule might change, there's always consistency in his return; seven pm sees him climbing the stairs to his apartment, unlocking the front door, and greeting his one-eyed dog like it's the single great pleasure of his day.

It provokes a feeling that resembles a threat not followed through. The sight of the chair refusing to respond to the techs.  

The Soldier always makes sure to be in line of sight to the window at seven pm. He has developed preferences over his time unwiped, but seeing Clint Barton smile has developed into more than that, into something very like a need.

The strange thing is that Barton ought to be an unremarkable man. He has no superpowers, no enhancements, no complicated vengeful backstory, or at least not one that was mentioned in his file. What he seems to have - helping his neighbour upstairs with her groceries, or stopping a mugger, or fighting against Doombots with the Avengers and putting himself at unacceptable risk - is an unshakeable loyalty and a dented moral compass that nonetheless always points him right.

It's intriguing. Confusing. Fascinating in ways that the Soldier has no idea how to explain.

So instead he reports back on the harmless details; the dog, the range, the dull gold ring on the fourth finger of Barton's left hand.

 

*

 

"Soldier."

He sits up. He was instantly awake from the first suggestion of movement near the truckle bed they eventually provided him with, after it became clear that they had no source of power adequate to power both the cryo-chamber and the chair.

(Perhaps not even one strong enough for one of them; the Soldier is beginning to think that the lack of a reset is more due to necessity than choice. The technicians seem more clumsy and prone to emotions daily; his handlers are more inclined to volume and violence.)

It's the shorter of his two handlers who is standing by his bed. In that niggling way that the Soldier recognises things, he knows that there had been more than this before. That this has never been how things have been done. There is something wrong in this, in what he is doing and what is being done, and the act of questioning it is a frigid knot in his stomach that has spread to freeze his tongue.

"Your work has borne fruit," the handler tells him. His voice is full of suppressed energy, and the Soldier tentatively labels this 'excitement' and files this knowledge away. "The knowledge you have brought us - their movements, their abilities - has all been of use, of course, but the key has always been weakness."

The man's eyes are gleaming, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he is having difficulty suppressing a facial expression. Every muscle in his body seems locked tight, almost vibrating, and the Soldier is working to show that he is paying attention while still keeping a careful watch on his hands.

"When you know a man's weakness," the handler says, "you control him. Utterly. His every thought, his every movement, his every act becomes yours."

"Like the words," the Soldier says, and then almost bites through his tongue in his need to retract them, to have them unsaid. He does not like the cruel smile that the handler's face twists into. He does not like the unknown that he fears in response.

"Like the words," the handler agrees, "and what better way is there to test their hold?" He reaches into a pocket, cut slim and almost invisible, fishing something out between two fingers. "Do you recognise this, Soldier?"

It is a ring. An unimpressive dull shade of black, a simple band. There is nothing in it that is of interest, nothing to make it stand out, and the Soldier has to exert everything at his disposal not to react to the sight of it, even though he has no comprehension of what that reaction would be.

"No," he says, between gritted teeth.

His handler lets out a short laugh and flips it up and catches it again. The frame of the bed bends a little beneath the Soldier's fingers as he struggles not to snatch it out of the air.

"We have a target for you," the handler says.

The Soldier pulls on his boots, taking as much time as possible to tighten his laces, and follows the handler to the folding table that stands beneath one of the few lights that still works. The emotion now, he thinks, is dread - a feeling like the realisation that a line has snapped, the inevitability of a fall. It's not a surprise to see glossy photos of Barton scattered across the scuffed surface, but what he feels in response may be the worst so far.

"Hawkeye," he says. It is cold in his mouth.

"Hawkeye," his handler echoes, and there is something violent lurking in his voice. His taller, quieter counterpart heaves a duffle bag onto the table and starts unloading weaponry, guns and knives and grenades and a garotte. The technicians continue working in the background, meaningless chattering and clattering that echo strangely in the Soldier's ears.

"Why Hawkeye?" he asks, although he doesn't mean to. The taller handler gives him a sharp look and the Soldier ducks his head to look at a photograph, hiding behind the shield of his hair.

"He is a weakness," the shorter handler says.

"And weaknesses can be used," the Soldier says flatly, reaching out to touch a photograph, shifting it as though looking at another beneath it, his finger tracing gently over Barton's smile.

"And some weaknesses must be eliminated," the taller handler says.

Photo paper crumples against metal fingers. The Soldier reaches out and takes a knife.

 

*

 

The Soldier catches an earlier train than usual. His armour is disguised with a faded hooded sweater, and no one looks at him twice outside Barton's building when he holds the door open and follows another tenant in.

It is better kept than the outside would suggest. The carpet is threadbare but the walls are freshly painted; the elevator appears to be working but the Soldier takes the stairs. An old lady shuffles past him, taking his arm for a moment in a firm grip until she can grab hold of the banister again on the other side of him, her lips spread wide in a gummy smile.

It's the work of a moment to pick the lock on Barton's front door, and there is a moment's annoyance at the ease, at the lack of any alarms. It is a Wednesday, and the dog will be brought back by Barton's little friend on Thursday morning, and this week the Soldier won't get to see that moment of sleep-addled delight.

Inside, the apartment is musty and sour-smelling, underlying order overlaid with at least a couple of weeks of determined mess. It's centred around the couch in front of the TV, take-out containers and empty mugs, but there's also a dartboard that's bristling with deeply embedded darts, knives, even a viciously flung fork.

Something has upset Barton; curiosity is unproductive.

He has an hour before the man returns, plenty of time to decide where best to wait and spring his trap. The Soldier still moves quickly through the room, working out the lay of the land that cannot be seen through windows, keeping an unwilling eye open for the inconsistencies that hint at the absent (and as yet undetermined) spouse.

It is - mission-critical. Within it there is a weakness.

There are no photographs of the two of them. There are very few photographs period, although there is a tacked-up poster for a circus that is twenty years out of date. By the coffee pot there's a jar of Cafe du Monde chicory coffee, and an oversized black mug that doesn't fit in with the largely purple colour scheme. WINTER IS COMING is printed across it in a blocky, old-fashioned font. In amongst the action films that make up the majority of the DVDs stacked by the television there are some science fiction films from a number of different countries, all of the titles in different languages and scripts yet still comprehensible to the Soldier, although there is nothing in Barton's file that would suggest the same.

It is a collection of clues, tiny mysteries, and they sneak like splinters under the Soldier's skin.

When the door rattles, just under an hour later, the Soldier is standing under the metal stairs that lead up to Barton's bedroom (two nightstands, matching dents in matching pillows, sheets too long unchanged). The Soldier is dressed in shades of dark grey and therefore invisible for a moment; it's not Barton's habit to turn the light on right away. He waits until Barton has unslung his bow from his shoulder, propped his quiver against the shoe rack by the door, and steps out when Barton's just reaching for the light switch, his gun trained and ready.

"Don't move."

Barton, against all logic, relaxes at the sound of his voice. The long slow fricative of a curse slips between his lips. Something in the sound of it shivers up the Soldier's spine like a cold fingertip, and he shifts - just barely - his stance.

"Hey honey," Barton says, spreading his hands a little away from his sides. "I'm home."

He is, the Soldier notes (with a rush of red hot that he suspects might be anger), bruised all to hell. There's a cut across the bridge of his nose and one eye is almost swollen shut. The Soldier takes an involuntary step forward and Barton's mouth twitches into a painful-looking smile.

"Stay still," the Soldier tells him, crossing the living space to join him, awkwardly patting him down with one hand while keeping his gun trained. Barton is a statue as the Soldier pulls out a gun, three throwing knives, two shuriken and a hunting knife that was strapped to his calf.

Barton stays still, but not silent, strangely voluble for a man that appears to live on his own.

"Just figures you'd be here," he says. "I spend weeks wandering the streets, trailing through the warehouse district, taking every dodgy tip I can find, and I manage to get - wow, friendly!" he interrupts himself, hissing in a breath and going up a little on his toes, increasing the height difference between the two of them even more. "Jesus. And then I manage to get cornered in my own living room, and you didn't even pick a night when I had my goddamn dog. Not that he'd do anything, of course - he's useless as a guard dog, he'd just be delighted to see you, and maybe I should be grateful you chose tonight -"

"I was watching," the Soldier tells him, and something in Barton's face changes.

"And you didn't wanna hurt him?"

"It reduces complications," the Soldier snaps, defensive, straightening up and stepping back. He returns his hand to his gun again, bracing himself against the urge to lower it. "You will come with me."

"You're not gonna kill me?"

The Soldier is certain that it ought to be harder to resist his programming than this; perhaps he is too long out of the chair. It is undeniable, though, that the feeling that runs through him as the decision is made is release, surcease, the removal of tension that has been so long in place, relaxing his muscles enough that he can shake his head.

"You know they're gonna know I'm gone within a couple hours," Barton says, scratching idly at his stubble, drawing the Soldier's attention to his dull gold ring.

"You live alone," the Soldier says flatly. "Your spouse is absent."

"Sure," Barton says, with an easier smile than the Soldier has yet seen, "but he's gonna come back."

 

*

 

The Soldier had intended to head for a space that he knew - an abandoned building in a deteriorating block, broken windows and excellent vantage points - but Barton insisted that he could do better than that.

“I’m a goddamn spy,” he said, “I have safe houses in cities all over the world, including this one, and they have weapons, and food, and running water, and coffee , and they sure as hell beat crouching in a dirty corner playing Whack-A-Roach with someone’s shoe.”

“At least I provide entertainment,” the Soldier says, and Barton snorts out a laugh and then slaps a hand over his mouth like he hadn’t meant to let that slip. “You expect me to trust you?”

“I do,” Barton says, low and certain, and something about the words, about the conviction in the cadence of his voice, persuades the Soldier to follow him.

Barton seems almost indifferent to the weapon he knows is trained on him as they trail through the pre-dawn streets; the Soldier had waited until they were unlikely to come across many other pedestrians so Barton wouldn’t have the opportunity to make his escape, their footsteps echoing in the empty shadows. Barton doesn’t seem to have any inclination towards freedom, though, despite the skills that Hydra had taken care to outline in their file on him, despite the many and varied ways the Soldier feels somehow certain they have underestimated him. Instead he strolls along at the Soldier’s side, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his hooded sweater, casting the occasional glance at the side of the Soldier’s face.

He reveals far too much in the way that he smiles.

The safe house is a loft space in a converted warehouse, simply furnished and bare of all personal touches, although the Soldier does appreciate the sheer variety of weaponry stashed throughout the rooms. He leaves Barton cuffed to an exposed pipe in the corner of the living room as he explores.

The Soldier isn't sure why he had indulged him, why he had trusted him enough to navigate them here, but he can't deny that the place is secure; he's found no electronic listening devices and seven exits on the main floor alone by the time he looks up, without surprise, to find Barton leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

"I was a juvenile delinquent," Barton tells him, tossing the handcuffs across to rattle in the sink. "You're better off with rope, if you want to keep me down."

"That so?"

" Oh yeah," Barton says, something dark and difficult to interpret in his eyes. He clears his throat after a moment, offers a little sheepish smile, and it is suddenly a little easier for the Soldier to look away. "So wanna explain to me what we're doing here?"

"Hydra wants you dead," the Soldier says.

"And yet I still appear to be standing."

The Soldier closes the hatch in the base of the kitchen cupboard that leads to the floor below, fidgeting with the length of steel cable that's anchored in the floor beside it.

"I don't." It's not an easy admission to make, but each defiance comes easier.

"I guess romance isn't dead," Barton says, and the Soldier can hear the smile in his voice but isn't sure he can bear to look at it. "So, what, we're gonna just stay in this love nest until Hydra or the Avengers find us?"

The Soldier gets to his feet and slams the cupboard door closed.

" We are doing nothing. You're my prisoner."

"Roleplay, huh?" Barton says, and crosses his clearly cuffless wrists. Something squirms in the Soldier's stomach. "I can get behind that."

The Soldier shoves past him, out into the main room, and mutters, "Give me time and I'll find the rope." The crack of laughter from behind him almost persuades the corner of his mouth to hitch up.

The apartment is well stocked. The Soldier leaves Barton on the couch - apparently he has the entirety of Dog Cops saved somehow on his TV - and pulls things from the refrigerator and the cupboards, working from some strange instinct. If he stops to think about what he's doing he cannot for the life of him work out the next step, but if he allows his hands to do what they're wanting - before too long he finds himself with a creditable red sauce simmering gently on the stove top, the smell of it somehow familiar.

"Wow," Barton says, from too close behind him. "That smells amazing."

The Soldier flinches away from the hand that settles on his waist, spinning around and smacking it away, his other hand pulling a knife and brandishing it. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, and Barton looks as though his is doing the same, his hands spread and his eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," he says, every inch of him sincere, no trace of an attempt to take advantage of the Soldier's moment of weakness. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't think."

The Soldier's fingers clench tighter around the knife and then relax, and he replaces the knife in its sheath with a hand that - through dedicated effort - doesn't shake.

"Don't touch me," he says, and Barton nods, biting his lip.

"Not unless you say it's okay. I'm sorry."

The Soldier shrugs it off, turning side-on to check on the food, breaking spaghetti in half to fit in the pan. Barton takes two beers out of the refrigerator and twists them open like a peace offering, leaving one on the kitchen island so he doesn't need to come back into the Soldier's space.

Dinner is an awkwardly silent affair. They sit on stools either side of the island, heads ducked down, not a word exchanged. Afterward, Barton starts washing up without any discussion, and the Soldier takes the opportunity to finish his exploration of the apartment, looking for security and sightlines and safety measures. It's significantly better than Barton's home, every security measure he would've put in already in place as though he had designed it himself. The knowledge that they would have plenty of warning should Hydra (or Captain America) find them settles warm in his stomach, and he considers the possibility that he may be able to sleep tonight.

 

*

 

"Oh no," says Barton flatly. "There's only one bed."

"I'll sleep on the couch," the Soldier says, almost before Barton's finished his sentence, and there's a moment where he thinks the man will protest. Barton scowls and glares at the blankets for a moment before visibly rallying, piling half the blankets and a pillow into his arms and almost tripping himself down the stairs. The Soldier reaches out to catch him by the arm - an automatic movement - and having Barton's smile that close to his face does nothing good for his equilibrium at all.

It’s beyond strange, how quickly the Soldier has adjusted to having Barton in his space, how little he now regards him as a threat at all. It’s closer to the opposite; there are windows on the upper floor that have the potential to be an entry point, but the Soldier - somehow - trusts Barton to have his back. He ought to be chaining the man to the bed, not considering him a co-conspirator, and his ease with the man unsettles him almost as much as his reaction to Barton’s smiles.

They work to make up the couch together, and the result is more comfortable than anything the Soldier can ever remember sleeping on. It's strange to be laid out like this with Barton still moving around, putting away the dishes and sorting bottles for recycling in the dim reflected light from the lamp by the Soldier's head.

Odder still is the way that Barton takes a moment in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his head tilted against the wood and watching the Soldier with something strange - almost lost - in his eyes. It's a moment - only a moment - but somehow it holds the weight of years. The Soldier resolutely turns his eyes up to the ceiling, shadowed and far above, and Barton lets out a heartfelt sigh.

"Goodnight, then," he says, soft and somehow difficult to read. The Soldier grunts something in response, turning to watch him retreat as soon as he's certain Barton's back is turned, as he makes his way up to the bed on the balcony. The Soldier’s breath catches when Barton hauls off his shirt on his way up the stairs, and he can't quite convince himself that it's from worry that the man will fall.

It's a turbulent night's sleep. The Soldier thrashes his way free of the blankets, gasping desperately for breath, and has to run silently up the stairs to make sure that the images in his head haven't made their way out into reality. That his hands hadn't -

Barton is peaceful, in sleep. He has kicked the sheets away, the long smooth line of his back uncovered to the air and the Soldier's gaze. His arm is slung over a pillow, clutching it tightly to himself, and the Soldier stands in the darkness with his fists clenched, breathing with him, letting a little of the tension ease out of him in time with Barton's soft snores.

He does nothing to cause it - no movement, no sound - but Barton snorts in a breath and blinks barely awake, eyelashes fluttering, smile slow and glorious in the barest light from the window.

"Hey sweetheart," he breathes, voice warm against the night, "come back to bed."

The Soldier takes a step backward, making certain that the moonlight reveals nothing of his face. Barton's face crumples a little, waking fully, and he scrubs both hands across it and swears softly into his cupped hands.

"Fuck."

Grasping for something useful in the unfamiliar landscape of human emotion, wanting more than anything to ease the misery just about visible on Barton's face, the Soldier speaks abruptly.

"He'll come back," he says. His voice is harsh and out of place amid the pillows and blankets and gentle light.

"He's coming back," Barton almost echoes, and flops onto his back.

The Soldier stands there a moment longer, long enough for Barton to indulge in a long, luxurious stretch.

"Y'know," he says, somehow finding the Soldier's eyes in the darkness, "if you can't sleep you're welcome to -" then stumbles to a halt as the Soldier turns on his heel and walks back down the stairs, his feet heavy on every step.

He doesn't bother trying for sleep again, instead taking a blanket from the couch and wrapping it around himself before settling in front of the large window that makes up one wall of the loft, resting his head against cool glass and watching the expanse of silvered concrete that's stretched out below.

 

*

 

Somehow, the morning is easy.

Somehow, the awkwardness of their almost-conversation remains limned in moonlight and doesn't make its way into the day. It likely helps that Barton takes some time before he's verbal, dragging blankets behind him into the kitchen and resting his head on the island until the coffee machine beeps. Rather than watch the man fumble with boiling liquid the Soldier pours him a cup, placing it on the countertop next to him and watching with a strange dip in his stomach as Barton fumbles his hands around the mug. There is an almost irresistible urge to run his fingers through Barton’s hair - like he has done it before, like he can almost feel the strands slipping between his fingers - and it is all he can do to stop himself.

"Best," Barton says, his smile aimed at the coffee but sparing a little happiness for the Soldier, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired and prompting emotional responses that the Soldier has no idea how to name. "Best, best, best."

"If I'd known it would be this easy," the Soldier ventures, "I would've tried capturing you in the morning."

"Oh baby," Barton mumbles, "for you I'm easy anytime."

The Soldier ducks his head and sips at his coffee, lost entirely for what to say.  

After breakfast Barton seems a little more coherent, and he sets himself to folding up and hauling away the flimsy table and chairs that are set up in front of the window. In a locker unobtrusively tucked in the corner there are a set of weights, a collection of rolled up mats, a couple of things that look like torture devices that Barton tosses right back in. It's the mats he hauls out, unrolling them to cover the floor, and once they're in place he starts warming up without changing out of the sweatpants he slept in, without bothering to find a shirt.

It's pure coincidence that the only other available surface is the kitchen island; it's bad luck that the Soldier needs the space to clean and inventory his weapons. He finds himself watching involuntarily, his attention entirely captured when Barton moves from warm up stretches into a controlled set of movements, stretches and arches and balances and tumbles, the routine flawless and mesmerizing. Barton runs all the way through twice, comes up flushed and panting and grinning right into the Soldier's face, since he still hasn't managed to pull his attention away.

"See something you like?"

"Yes," he says, simple and honest, because - unlike Hydra - Barton is in no position to punish him for expressing a preference.

Barton's face is a complexity of emotions that the Soldier has no hope of reading. It resolves into something like a smile but more dangerous; a concealed weapon, a black-painted blade.

"I ought to hate you," he says; the Soldier agrees. "So I figure the least you can do is let me try to kick the shit out of you, right?"

It's nonsensical, pointless - if this situation leads to a confrontation, the preferable scenario would have them fighting on the same side. If the opposite is true - if Hydra is able to regain control of him - then there is no preparation he can offer Barton that will help him fight the Soldier.

(It's the first time he thinks about it like that, with that separation of self, but he can't make the train of thought move any further - if, by implication, he is not currently the Soldier, then who in the hell is he?)

None of this explains why the Soldier relents, removing the last of his concealed weapons, his boots and socks. The latter seems to distract Barton, his attention caught by the Soldier's pale feet, but he manages to regain focus when the Soldier walks forward to face him, meeting his eyes.

Barton's are a warm blue, like sun-filled skies.

"You mind if I touch you?" Barton asks, and the Soldier frowns, cocks his head.

"You'll find it difficult to beat me if you don't," he points out, matter-of-fact, and Barton shrugs one shoulder, offering a rueful smile.

"Yeah, well, I promised to ask for permission," he says, "and I've broken enough promises to - people, in the past. Pretty sure you deserve better than that."

The Soldier isn't sure how to find the words to disagree.

"You have my permission," he says, instead.  

What he expects is a darting movement, perhaps a flurry of blows - from what he has just seen Barton is fast enough, and even if as an unenhanced human Barton isn't strong enough to beat him, he expects to have to work for his victory.

What he doesn't expect, what he is entirely unprepared for, is Barton carefully reaching out to run his fingers through the Soldier's hair, scraping it back into a tail at the back of his neck and tying it in place there. It's a quick movement, perfunctory and businesslike, but the Soldier's mouth drops a little open, his eyes wide. He's unused to the gentle treatment, and he knows he has no hope of hiding his reaction to that, not with Barton so close. Whatever Barton sees in his face makes him swallow and step back, the first graceless movement he's made so far.

The feeling of his hair anchored away from his face is one he shouldn’t know so well. His left thumb moves - an automatic movement, a gentle whirr - to trace against the metal at the base of the fourth finger of his hand, and the feeling of something missing is like an airless gasp for breath, like expecting solid ground and falling into darkness. His eyes snap up to meet Barton’s - and even that name for him is wrong - and he would give anything to read the expression in the eyes that stare back.  

There's a moment that's thick with a tension that the Soldier doesn't quite understand, and then Barton shakes his head and bounces on the balls of his feet, hauling a smile into place with a visible effort.

"C'mon then, punk," he says, "make my -"

The last word is lost in a squawk as the Soldier tackles him solidly, taking him down without effort. When the Soldier shifts his weight Barton eels out from under him, flipping back to his feet, and dances backward with a startled laugh when the Soldier lunges for him again, half-speed.

It's an absurdity of a fight. Neither of them quite seem to be trying to win - the Soldier is half-afraid of hurting Barton, and half-distracted by his proximity, hot and panting and only half-dressed. A moment's inattention - or close attention, really, to a bead of sweat making its way down Barton's neck - and the Soldier is knocked to the floor with a spinning kick, Barton's weight landing on top of him a moment later, straddling his waist, his wrists pinned to the floor with Barton's hands.

If the Soldier exerted himself, there is no way that Barton could hold him there.

Neither of them moves.

"Barton -" the Soldier says, lost somewhere in the indefinable space between a warning and a plea.

"Call me Clint," the other man says, and then there's a shift of Barton's weight, a fingertip tilting up the Soldier's chin. It's dreamlike, the gentle warm pressure of lips against lips, like nothing he can quite remember feeling before. His head tilts purely through instinct, angling them better, and the soft movement of Barton's - Clint's mouth flows through him like water, leaving him beached and helpless when Clint pulls away.

"You're married," the Soldier says, and the corner of Clint's mouth hitches up into something that looks almost painful.

"I'm married," Clint says, resting his forehead against the Soldier's for the barest of tender seconds before he pushes up and gets awkwardly to his feet, crossing to the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water before jogging up the stairs.

The Soldier considers rolling the mats up, restoring the room to order as though that will do anything to calm his racing thoughts. Instead he finds himself sitting on the couch, bedding neatly stacked at one end, his fingertips resting lightly against his lips.

The pressure is familiar in the fragmentary way that the kiss was. Impossible to isolate, but undeniable. Somehow he has been touched like this before; somehow he has kissed and been kissed. Somehow he has been something other than the Soldier, and the knowledge that Hydra has taken that from him is like molten rock, slow moving through him, red hot and unstoppable and furious .

Clint comes down the stairs slowly while the Soldier is arming himself, the man freshly-showered and tentative. His pale eyes watch as knives are sheathed and clips are stowed, and then he crosses the room to unlock a closet with his fingerprint, pulling out a quiver and a high-tech bow.

"I was someone else before they took me," the Soldier says, and Clint gives a tight nod, his jaw clenched.

"Bucky."

"Who the hell is Bucky?" the Soldier asks, voice cracking a little on the word, and he has no defences against the way Clint looks in response. It's impossible to stop himself from stepping closer, lifting his hand to rest it against the curve of Clint's neck.

"Y'know what?" Clint lifts his own hand to rest on the Soldier's and there's a fierce determination in his face. "I cannot wait for you to work that out."

The decision to take down his handlers is easily made - they are a threat to Clint, and therefore cannot be permitted to exist. (Clint grins wide and delighted when the Sol- when Bucky - explains his reasoning. He bites down on the unfamiliar feeling of an answering smile.)

The plan of attack is a little harder to agree on, since Clint won't accept that it's better off if it's just Bucky - the name coming a little easier every time he refers to himself that way.

"You're not going in there alone," Clint says, and "I'm a goddamn Avenger ," which carries even less weight. In the end it's the "I'm not losing you," that sways Bucky, or rather the tone of voice in which it's said, the way Clint cups his face in his hand, the band of dull gold cool against his cheek.

"If you get hurt -" Bucky says, tone of voice standing in for an end to the sentence, since the Soldier has never been known for his threats.

"Then you'll have some idea how I fuckin' feel, asshole," Clint mumbles in response. It settles into place on top of all the other unfinished thoughts, all the half-seen clues that Bucky is afraid to look at straight on in case his surmises, his desperately hoped for conclusions are wrong.

They agree that Clint will go in via the fire escape to the catwalk gantry that circles the warehouse, silently picking them off from a distance while Bucky storms in through the door. They seal the agreement with a fleeting touch of Clint's mouth to Bucky's, soft and perfect and not-quite-known but nearly, but almost, but barely there.

"You're married," Bucky says.

"I'm married," Clint echoes, then presses a kiss to his forehead, his lips curving into a smile, "and he's coming back."

 

*

The warehouse is as unimpressive from the outside as the collected resources of Hydra are within. Bucky doesn't bother with subtlety - it's not a specialty of the Soldier's - and just lifts his boot to kick the door in.

Nothing seems to have advanced much since his disappearance. Half the lights are still blown, a jury-rigged drapery of wires coiled around the chair like a jungle reclaiming something long past worshipping. He doesn't flinch at the wretched shape of it but he doesn't want to get too close, shooting five times and ducking left after his dramatic entrance, taking shelter behind a wide metal pillar before the assembled techs can detangle themselves from their collective incompetence and attempt to train their weapons on him, five of their number already unmoving.

A furious voice starts shouting orders - the shorter of the two handlers, because Bucky would recognise the frustrated mosquito whine in his tone anywhere. He rolls out from behind the pillar - two more techs are sprawling out on the floor, unlikely to be dead but certainly wise enough to stop moving, slim dark shafts pinning them to the ground - and heads in the man's direction.

"Who the fuck is that ?" someone yelps, and Bucky smiles because apparently one of the universal truths that remains in his fragmented existence is that everything is better when Clint is there. There's the gentle slap of a bowstring, and in the corner of Bucky's eye something flashes, bright and blue. Deep in the centre-mass of the chair a cheerful flicker dances, the electronics burning and melting irreparably. He's so caught by the sight of it that he almost doesn't manage to deflect the taller of his handlers, catching the blow on his shoulder instead of his chest, the armour not quite deflecting the blade of the knife.

In moments like these, there's no dissonance between Bucky and the Soldier, not when both of them are fighting for their lives. There's no mercy, no restraint, and while his arm isn't responding as it should, the knife caught in the bundle of nerves and wires where the metal is rooted into flesh, he still has little trouble getting the upper hand. The rattle of machine-gun fire against the gantry above makes his heart beat a little faster, but -

But even if he doesn't know Clint, doesn't remember how to translate his expressions or predict how he will react, he still trusts him right down to the bone. Trusts him to do his job, trusts him to stay alive, trusts him to come back for more of those addicting kisses that make Bucky forget to care about who he is.  Apparently that's something stronger than whatever they managed to do to him with the chair.

Bucky grabs the taller handler around the neck, the machinery of his arm grinding audibly as he pushes him up onto his toes, the man's spidery fingers scrabbling at the implacable metal grip.

"Stop!"

It's almost a shriek. The uncomprehending, selfish anger of a child being denied its favourite toy. Worse - it came from the gallery, and Bucky turns to see the other handler with his gun trained on Clint, who is frozen in the act of pulling another arrow free from his quiver.

Whatever techs had been left have been wise enough to escape. There’s only a cheerily burning chair, a collection of groaning bodies and a man breathing his last in Bucky’s hands.

He drops the handler. The man is irrelevant.

The tall handler had been the one to strap him down. The Soldier was held still and controlled by a cobweb of words like a marionette's strings, but the tall handler was there to provide physical support when physical support was needed. He had backhanded the Soldier across the face, Bucky remembers, and had smiled when he did it. But he hadn't given the orders, and he hadn't said the words, and it had been easy enough to hurt him because of it.

Do not harm the handler. It is the first and the greatest amongst the commandments that program him, deep in the code and scratched into his bones. That he cannot disobey the words and he cannot disobey the one who says them; in the beginning, always, is the words, the beginning of the Soldier and therefore the beginning of everything that he is.

Only now there's the possibility of an earlier beginning, of something before. There's the way Clint's smiles hit him deeper than bone, soul-deep and deeper. Bucky raises his gun.

"Желание.”

"No." It is more than a word, more than an emotion, snapped out like a drum beat, like a call to arms. His gun is pointed at the handler now, but his finger will not obey him, rigid and unbending against the trigger guard.

Clint makes a slight movement and the handler shifts his weight, a cruel smile on his face and his finger on the trigger. At that distance, there is no way that he could possibly miss.

"Ржавый."

Bucky shakes his head with fierce denial, this time dragged from between clenched teeth. He cannot, he cannot watch, he cannot have this happen , because his memories are gone but he knows Clint in his soul and in his gut and in all the dark and secret places that Hydra has made him forget about but has never quite touched. He snaps up his other arm to try to hold his gun still against the way his denial is now shaking his whole body, fighting against himself, fighting against the spell the words weave.

"Семнадцать.”

His voice is ragged, denial ripped out of him, pigeons taking flight in the roof of the warehouse at the sound of his scream. On the gantry, Clint turns his head to look at him, catching his eyes and trying for a smile; as though he resents the lack of attention the handler twitches his gaze to Bucky too for a second, for less than a second, for somehow enough time for Clint to nock an arrow and fire his bow, his arrow tearing through the throat of the handler without his eyes ever leaving Bucky's.

"Fuck," Bucky says, over and over, fricatives spilling out of him and whispering back from corrugated corners and the echoing expanse of the roof. His legs won't hold him, and he crashes to his knees, breathing like he's just been dragged up from underwater.

After a minute, after a little more, a pair of boots stand on the pitted concrete in front of him and Bucky looks up at Clint from his knees and thinks, dazed, this, I remember - I remember this.

But it's Clint that's holding the ring, this time, dull black and pulled from a dead man's pocket, crafted to hold all his wishes in one place and bind them around the fourth finger of his hand.

"Hey," Bucky says, holding his hand out so Clint can push it back in place with blood stained fingers, so they can tangle their fingers together in familiar ways, so tight they can't be pulled apart. "Hey, I'm back."