exhaling again

by shatteredhourglass

Summary:

There’s a lot more personality in Bucky now; he’s taken to buying breathable long-sleeved shirts that still let him disguise the metal arm instead of bulletproof jackets and hoodies all the time. Surprisingly, no one in Australia seems concerned about the fact only one sleeve is ripped off. Modern fashion, and all that. He’s not interested in wearing purple, which is a little disappointing.

He’s also not interested in going back to the States.

“Got another missed call from you-know-who,” Clint says instead of a greeting.

Bucky sighs at him.

He’s been fucking around in the shallows for the last hour without paying attention - Clint suspects he might have been trying to catch a fish of some sort, but it’s too hot to try and tease him. If he actually grabs a fish, that’s the fish’s problem. Clint is happy just sprawling out on the burning sand, accidentally convincing tourists that he’s up and died on the beach.

He slept through a hilarious attempt at CPR earlier. Luckily he’s not alone on his holiday, and his traveling companion is scary enough to keep overactive tourists at bay.

“We’ve gotta face the music sooner or later,” Clint says.

Bucky doesn’t reply.

Clint thinks he might be getting a tan. There’s a lot more personality in Bucky now; he’s taken to buying breathable long-sleeved shirts that still let him disguise the metal arm instead of bulletproof jackets and hoodies all the time. Surprisingly, no one in Australia seems concerned about the fact only one sleeve is ripped off. Modern fashion, and all that. He’s not interested in wearing purple, which is a little disappointing.

He’s also not interested in going back to the States.

Clint’s phone buzzes again from where it’s sitting on the sand next to his thigh. He squints down at it and sees the name displayed. Yep, it’s exactly who he thought it’d be. Again. “Bucky, we should probably-”

Bucky throws the phone into the water.

Clint watches it disappear. “That was expensive.”

“It’s a plain SHIELD-issue mobile, still encoded with all their tracking bullshit. It cost two hundred dollars at the most and you should’ve gotten rid of it months ago.”

He’s not wrong. It’s too much effort to bother arguing with him anyway, so Clint just flops back down onto the sand. He’s going to end up with it stuck in every orifice possible and he can’t even muster up the energy required to care. He can’t really be bothered with worrying about the whole Steve debacle either, even though he should be.

“They’re going to start hunting us down soon, y’know,” Clint says to the empty blue sky. “If you don’t want them to find you, you should probably start moving. Or at least room with someone who isn’t a missing Avenger.”

He hears Bucky flop down on the sand next to him a second later. Their elbows are just barely touching, enough for Clint to feel the unforgiving weight of the metal arm through the thin cotton. Clint wonders what the fuck they’re doing. He wonders what the fuck he’s doing, that he hasn’t spoken to Steve or Natasha in weeks just because of Bucky.

“I don’t want to,” Bucky says in that blunt way Clint’s getting used to, and then he sighs. “I’m not- I’m not ready to face him yet.”

“Your choice, man,” Clint answers.

Bucky doesn’t reply to that verbally, but his mind nudges up against Clint’s a second later. It’s a silent thank you, a soft kind of affection that Clint hasn’t felt in aeons. These kind of things seem to come naturally to Bucky and Clint’s getting used to it, slowly. He doesn’t recoil violently anymore, anyway, and Bucky’s learned not to just shove his way inside Clint’s mind.

(That one he learned the hard way.)

A kid running on the sand a few meters away starts abruptly screaming about being chased by a seagull and Bucky flinches, just a little. It wouldn’t be noticeable if Clint wasn’t touching him but he is, and it is. Clint doesn’t say anything about it, though.

“What now?”

“Just Like Heaven is on at eight.”

“It’s not on Netflix?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “I like watching it on the normal TV.”

Clint doesn’t understand it. Then again, he can’t understand a lot of what Bucky does now that he’s actually got a distinct personality. It’s a far cry from the ominous aura that the Winter Soldier had. Clint’s gone from having a nerve-wracking shadow following him around to an actual companion - and the worst part is that he likes Bucky, when he forgets about what Bucky is.

They still haven’t talked about the kiss.

Clint’s pretty sure that Bucky doesn’t even remember they kissed. He’s trying his best to forget as well, for Bucky’s sake. He doesn’t need that kind of pressure on him from Clint - especially given that Clint is the only person he interacts with regularly, aside from the pizzeria cook next door who’s got their orders memorized

Forgetting hasn’t worked very well.

“Ferry’s going to be here soon,” he says.

“We could always not take the ferry,” Bucky answers.

“You want me to swim back to the mainland? Hell, Barnes, I didn’t know you disliked me that much.”

“No,” Bucky says, sounds frustrated for a second. “I meant- nevermind.”

Clint knows exactly what he means, but he’s happier playing dumb. Bucky doesn’t push his luck, and Clint thinks about actually attempting to swim. He doesn’t trust the things floating around in the water in Australia, though, and he knows he’d just get tired and bored within a few minutes. Swimming isn’t really his thing.

“Would you sink if you tried to swim laps with that arm?”

“No,” Bucky says, sits up. “Let’s get on the damn boat.”

 

Clint’s gotten so used to Bucky’s presence that he just grimaces in the direction of the shitty hotel bed when a mind nudges against his, but Bucky doesn’t move an inch. He’s sleeping sprawled out across the mattress, enough of a starfish that Clint’s relegated to the squeaky desk chair. It might be an unconscious thing now, he supposes, except Bucky’s rolling over and muttering something about clowns and the mind poking at Clint’s is razor-sharp and clear, not fuzzy with sleep.

You’re not dead, Natasha says.

Nope. Sorry to disappoint.

Not a disappointment. A surprise, maybe. Did you upset the locals and get kidnapped again?

Bucky’s fingers are twitching sporadically. Clint wonders what it is he’s dreaming about, and if it’s nice. Who knows what goes on in Bucky’s mind now. Clint doesn’t like the idea of poking around to check, so it’s going to remain a mystery. He’s got bigger problems than Bucky’s semi-psychic subconscious anyway.

Nope, Clint repeats, keeping his eyes on Bucky. Magically, I have not pissed anyone off. Are you proud of me?

Why are you ignoring Steve’s calls?

He sighs. Straight to the point. Why can’t he make friends with people who are too polite to ask him questions he doesn’t want to answer and don’t throw his phone into the sea? Then again, at least that gives him an excuse for his radio silence besides the truth, because he can’t tell Natasha that he’s not only friends with Bucky now, but that they’re sleeping in the same bed as well.

It’s also because Natasha has a nose like a bloodhound for crushes - something about demons, they can smell the desire on the back of your tongue - and she’d probably love nothing more than to get him back for his comments about Steve.

My phone fell in the ocean, he says eventually.

You couldn’t buy a new one? It’s not an urgent question. Coming from anyone else it’d probably be an accusation, but Natasha knows if she’s patient she’ll get everything out of him anyway. Her favourite strategy is waiting people out - which would work better if everyone was immortal, rather than a select few.

Unfortunately Clint is one of the select few she can wait an eternity for - and so is Bucky, technically.

Bucky rolls over in his sleep and for a tiny sliver of a second there’s a shadow of wings thrown up against the wall, huge and curved against the crappy paint job. Clint’s breath catches in his throat automatically, the same way it does every time there’s a reminder of what Bucky is.

It’s still terrifying.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

I’m working on it, he says.

Work on it faster, Natasha answers, and then she’s gone.

Clint rolls into bed next to Bucky and sticks his face as hard into the pillow as he can. It muffles his groan enough that he doesn’t wake Bucky up, and he’s careful to make sure their skin doesn’t touch despite how small the bed is.

Work on it faster. He’d sooner not work on it at all.

 

“When you said you wanted to go sightseeing, I thought you meant somewhere exciting,” Clint says, pushes his glasses up so they’re sitting on his head. “Will anyone even hear me screaming if you decide to go all killing-machine on me?”

“Probably not,” Bucky replies.

They’re in the rainforest, according to the signs littered around the trees. Clint hadn’t even realized that there were forests in Australia - it’s a little strange, to say the least, although the dappled sunlight through the leaves is pleasant enough. Bucky stops to inspect an unusual-looking plant and Clint feels around in his jeans for the Wagon Wheel he’d tucked away.

It’s a damn good cookie.

Clint thinks about what kind of Australian cookies - biscuits - he’s going to eat next. He doesn’t even bother looking up until he trips over a root sticking up out of the ground - and even then he’s about to return his attention to his pockets to look for some more snacks, but Bucky’s started scaling a tree. Clint only notices because the curve of Bucky’s ass is right in his eyeline. It’s both appealing and startling in equal measures, and Clint takes a step back as Bucky swings himself onto a branch.

He’s still wearing black combat boots, and they swing gently to a soundless rhythm as Bucky taps his fingers against the bark. Bucky raises an eyebrow silently. It’s a challenge. Clint is in flip flops. He’s going to break his fucking neck if he tries to scramble up the trunk in these.

Bucky doesn’t budge an inch.

Clint sighs and kicks them off into the dirt, hopes - doesn’t pray, because there’s no one listening to that - no one’s going to steal them if they’re left unattended. They haven’t seen any people for miles but there’s always that chance that it’ll happen because it’s him. His luck’s not exactly what folks would call good. Either way he leaves them on the ground and takes the (metal) hand Bucky offers out, hauls himself up onto the branch.

“What’s this all about?” He asks the question once he’s seated securely, hands on rough bark.

“Wanted to go somewhere people weren’t,” Bucky answers.

That’s fair enough. And they are pretty isolated out here. It almost makes Clint glad that they’re so difficult to kill, because a serial killer would have a field day out here. He glances around just in case, but there’s nothing. No one except him and Bucky and the sound of wings echoing in the confines of his head.

“If you wanted somewhere where people weren’t,” Clint says, because he hates silence. “Why am I here? You could’ve gone wandering by yourself, you don’t need a babysitter.”

“You aren’t people,” Bucky reasons.

Even though he knows that isn’t what Bucky meant, the insidious part of Clint’s mind agrees with him. Clint isn’t a person. Even Bucky’s far more of a person than he is. He’s a person with all the benefits that Clint’s thrown away. The dark flickers of his thoughts must show up on his face because Bucky frowns at him, but Clint’s not enough of an asshole to dump that baggage out on anyone else.

Bucky chews at his bottom lip and Clint looks away, up at the slivers of sky he can see through the trees. “Why’re we in the forest, Barnes?”

“You said you’d help me figure this out, before.” Bucky’s voice is faintly hesitant as he speaks, like he’s worried Clint’s going to flip out on him. “And then we never talked about it again. It’s been weeks.”

“Has it?” Time stopped having any meaning a few centuries ago.

Bucky fixes him with a flat stare. He doesn’t react to Clint’s airy tone other than that, but it’s still pretty effective. Clint’s not going to be winning any staring contests anytime soon. He sighs and deflates a little, looking down at his bare feet. Being up in the trees - being up high anywhere, really - is as close to normal as he can feel, and it stops him from snapping.

“I don’t even know what I can do,” Bucky says. “Hydra figured out the wings and I can do the whole psychic communication thing, but there’s other shit, right?”

“You want a Mister Miyagi, not a Clint Barton,” Clint comments. “Do I look like a wise old man ready to pass on my craft to the younger generation?”

“You look like an asshole,” Bucky retorts, frowning. “Maybe I should go find someone else, if you’re going to be a dick about it.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck as in there’s no one else, or…” Bucky sighs. “Barton, I’m part of this world now. I didn’t get a choice in it and I’m just trying to figure it all out. I don’t like not knowing things.”

Clint keeps looking at his toes. He should paint them a fun colour when he gets back to his room. Lauren down at reception has some nail polish under her desk, he’s pretty sure. A blue would be nice, something eye-searing and terrible to terrorize the conservatives with. He already upset a guy in a bar by wearing his (Bobbi’s) feminist agenda shirt.

Bucky had nearly punched the guy for grabbing Clint.

He’s not being fair, is he? Maybe Bucky does deserve to go and find someone else. Except that even if Clint is a dick, he’s a far better alternative to the other things that are out there. He shouldn’t be trying to drive Bucky away. It’s just the bitterness and the loss, the wind rushing in his ears that never goes away.

“They don’t,” he starts, swallows hard. “You won’t find anything down here except me. Sorry.”

“I wasn’t actually going anywhere,” Bucky says, brushes metal fingers against the side of Clint’s knee. “So, what? They’re snobs?”

Clint laughs and it comes out a little choked. “Sure. Yeah. Snobs.”

Bucky seems to accept that easily enough - that, or he knows it’s an extremely sensitive subject. Clint isn’t exactly being subtle here. He blinks away the feathers dancing behind his eyelids and tries to focus on something more positive. Something that might distract them both from the idea of other angels being around.

“Cup your hands together,” he says impulsively.

Bucky just blinks at him, so Clint reaches over for his left hand and guides it into position. He doesn’t touch Bucky’s flesh hand, just pinches the fabric of his sleeve delicately and maneuvers it so it’s covering Bucky’s metal palm.

“Close your eyes,” Clint instructs, and Bucky obeys. His eyelashes are dark against his skin and Clint’s tempted for just a second to touch. He doesn’t, though.

“Now what?”

“Think of something nice. Something good. Doesn’t matter what it is, just that it’s got a happy feeling attached,” Clint says. He watches Bucky’s expression change slightly, soften around the edges a little. It feels like an intrusion to ask what he’s thinking about, as much as Clint’s curious about it. Probably something to do with his past, or Steve.

“Okay,” Bucky says without opening his eyes. “What’re we doing?”

“Stay focused,” Clint replies. He’s puzzled for a second when Bucky doesn’t give him a snarky reply until - yeah, focusing. Right. He doesn’t have to do the whole meditative focus - too much spare time, too much of an interest in little inconsequential things like archery and the colour purple.

He doesn’t even have to look for Bucky’s presence anymore, it’s always edging on the corners of his own mind. Clint sighs and then reaches out with his mind, tugs at it gently.

“Open ‘em.”

Bucky blinks his eyes open and looks confused for a second, until he glances down at his hands and the gentle glow. It’s just a simple white light gleaming through the gaps in his fingers. It’s a cheap gimmick, really, but Bucky’s eyes go wide with a curious sort of wonder anyway, bringing his hands closer to his face to inspect it.

“Wow,” Bucky says softly, the light catching on the blue in his eyes and turning it silver, and for a second Clint forgets why he’d been upset in the first place.

 

“I brought lunch,” Bucky says a while later.

The glow is still sticking to his right hand as he twists around for the backpack on his shoulders, comes back with a Bob the Builder lunchbox he’s acquired from somewhere. Opening the box reveals a stack of carefully neat sandwiches that Clint doesn’t remember Bucky making this morning, along with a collection of prepackaged snacks. Clint spots another Wagon Wheel nestled in there and his stomach flips.

“Can I make it bigger? The light?”

“Sure,” Clint says, makes grabby hands for a sandwich. Bucky passes it over with a resigned-sounding sigh and Clint works at getting the wrapping off. He’s used to those kind of sighs from Natasha, it doesn’t affect him. Ew, salad. He picks out a leaf of lettuce and lets it drop to the rainforest floor, hopes that a bird will enjoy it. He sure isn’t. “If you blind someone I’m not taking responsibility for it though.”

“I’m not going to blind anyone,” Bucky says with a frown.

“That’s the spirit,” Clint answers cheerfully, takes a bite of his sandwich.

“You’re impossible,” Bucky says. “I thought you were supposed to be the nice Avenger.”

“Being the nicest out of a group with an egotistical rich boy, an overaggressive guy from the Depression, a former Red Room operative, Hulk, and a Norse god with no mortal social skills isn’t hard,” Clint says dismissively. “It doesn’t mean I’m a good person, just that the population can’t find an obvious problem with me the way they can with the others. Also, people’s grandmas really like me for some reason.”

“At least you’re honest,” Bucky says in a tone that suggests he’d rather Clint wasn’t.

Clint goes back to eating his sandwich.

“Why do you put up with me if you don’t like me?”

“I do like you,” Clint says. Probably a little too much, if he’s honest with himself. “It’s just- it’s hard being around you sometimes.”

“Right.” It’s cold.

“Not because of you, because of me,” Clint elaborates without looking at Bucky. He puts the hand with the sandwich down, stares into the distance so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. Faintly he realizes the light on Bucky’s fingers has died out. “It’s not your fault.”

“Damn right it isn’t,” Bucky says.

They eat the rest of the food in silence. Bucky still gives him the Wagon Wheel, even though Clint’s a dick who probably doesn’t deserve it. The last time he’d been this snippy, Loki had been fishing around in his skull. The time before that he’d been somewhere in South America before it had been called South America.

“The Hulk is nicer than me,” Clint says after a while. “He said thank you once, when I got him a burrito.”

“Good for him.”

When Bucky gets down from the tree he holds a hand out to help Clint down as well, forever the gentleman. Unfortunately, the sick churn in his stomach doesn’t agree with the idea of touching Bucky right now. Right. He feels guilty about being mean. How does Natasha do this all the time without the icky feelings that come with it?

 

Clint buys a new phone.

He leaves it in the package, though. It’s an apology without being an apology, and Clint’s come to terms with his own emotional constipation. Bucky doesn’t seem angry the way that Clint expects him to be. He just turns on the television and finds the food channel - always the free-to-air, never Clint’s Netflix account now that he knows how to operate it.

Gordon Ramsay is shouting about something. Bucky is sitting on the edge of the mattress in the spot that has the best view of the screen, chewing on his lip. It looks like he’s thinking about something but Clint doesn’t know what, and he’s not sure he wants to ask.

He decides to take a nap. Napping never has any expectations to it, and he can’t hurt anyone’s feelings if he’s asleep.

Clint rolls onto the bed without taking his shoes off.

 

He doesn’t dream about falling at first.

First, he’s standing in murky water up to his knees, surrounded in darkness. Something about it feels worryingly familiar, and when he glances down at his hands he knows they don’t belong to him. He’s wearing a shirt that’d be more at home a hundred years ago, pushed up to his elbows. Clint looks away from the hands and catches sight of someone else standing in the water. They’re smaller than him, frail like a strong breeze could snap them in half.

“Steve,” he calls, only it isn’t his voice.

The shadowy shape of Steve Rogers turns towards him, only his face is ghostly white and blank.

Traitor.

You are no longer one of us.

We will forsake you.

The voices echoes around the space and gets more and more deafening until Clint’s jamming hands over his ears, the sticky mess of blood already leaking onto his fingers. There’s a sharp pain burning down his spine and he can hear carnival music underneath the accusations, taunting him. The figure takes a step towards him and three sets of wings flare from its back, blazing gold and terrifying.

He takes a step back and there’s no solid ground behind him.

It’s almost a relief when he starts falling again.

 

Clint jerks awake, the sickening crunch still echoing in his ears.

His heart’s hammering uncomfortably under his ribs and he forgets where he is for a second when a hand reaches out. Instinct has him grabbing the wrist attached, twisting it in a sharp movement and then knocking its owner to the floor, landing on top of them with his free hand at their throat. Heat crackles up his spine a second later, a familiar voice muttering serial numbers and titles while Zemo laughs in the background.

The world knocks back into place around him.

“Shit,” Clint says.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Bucky says. “You’re fucking heavy.”

Clint yanks his hands away. It stops the flood of Bucky’s memories in his head, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’d tried to accidentally choke out his sort-of kind-of roommate. He’s surprised Bucky didn’t retaliate - and then he sees the knife lying on the carpet by Bucky’s head.

Oh, he nearly got stabbed. Nice.

“Clint?”

His back hurts.

“Clint.”

He can still see their white blank faces when he blinks.

“Clint,” Bucky says again, sitting up so Clint is effectively sitting in his lap with their chests pressed together. They’re not skin-to-skin, so all Clint can feel is the gentle rise and fall of his breathing through his shirt.

It’s a little comforting, but it doesn’t make the rest of it go away. Shadows of wings flicker against the wall behind Bucky and Clint just wants to make it go away, he just wants them to shut up and there’s no way they will unless he-

Clint kisses Bucky.

It’s taking advantage. It’s a relief. The contact has the effect he’s expecting, though - Bucky’s mind is loud, flickers of memories in every corner that reach over with enough strength that the darkness behind his eyelids is suddenly filled with Bucky’s memories instead, snow crunching under his boots and a gun clasped tight enough to ache.

His teeth catch on Bucky’s lip and Clint feels the groan more than hears it, swipes his tongue over the spot. Bucky’s hands are on his hips now, holding him steady as Clint claims his mouth with the kind of desperation that he only feels when he really needs to escape something.

Fuck, what is he doing? Bucky didn’t consent to being used like this.

“Goddamnit,” Clint spits out when he manages to pull back, and he’s never meant it more than this exact moment. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I’m all shades of fucked u-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Bucky’s kissing him, which is surprising enough that Clint manages to forget why he’d stopped in the first place. Oh wait, consent. Bucky seems to be consenting pretty heavily now, though, and one of his hands has found its way under Clint’s shirt to the sweat-damp skin underneath.

“We shouldn’t,” he starts, the weak protest mumbled against Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky just rolls them over so Clint’s on his back and keeps kissing him.

In this position Bucky’s hair is brushing against his cheek softly and it’s at odds with the sting of teeth and scrape of denim. Bucky’s penning him in this way, legs in-between Clint’s spread thighs and one hand bracing him close enough for Clint to feel the brush of metal on his collarbone.

This is a terrible idea.

They should really stop and think about what the hell they’re doing. They should talk about it, like well-adjusted, trustworthy adult people. But Clint’s not a person and he’s scared that if they stop then they’ll stop, and he can’t take his hands off of Bucky anyway.

It’s not a terrible idea, it’s something worse than that. He’s turned on by it anyway. Bucky’s turned on by it - they’re pressed tight enough that Clint can tell without a doubt that he’s hard. Bucky sucks a bruise under Clint’s jaw and Clint scrambles to find the fly of his jeans, attempting to shove his own loose shorts down his thighs as well.

He doesn’t bother with his shirt, but Bucky sits up to strip his own off and toss it aside. Clint’s eyes get stuck on the bulk of muscle, smooth skin that transitions to mottled scars the closer to Bucky’s left side it gets.

Fucking unbelievable. Looking at Bucky, Clint can almost believe all the songs the humans make about angels.

Bucky leans in and then pauses a scant inch from Clint’s mouth. “Do you want to?”

“Does this look like a no,” Clint says, and he’s getting a little desperate for Bucky to touch him properly again. Underneath the arousal he’s terrified that the nightmares are going to come back, and the mix of emotions has him grabbing Bucky’s shoulders and tugging him into another kiss.

They don’t actually make it to proper sex. At least, Clint’s pretty sure that rubbing off on each other like modern teenagers isn’t proper sex but who knows, the definition changes every ten years. Bucky’s metal hand wraps around his dick carefully and then he’s not so careful with his teeth on Clint’s chest, sharp nips and bites that feel a little more like claiming.

It’s too messy to be good. Or it is good, but not in the soft romantic way Clint always daydreams about when he’s got a moment alone.

Clint comes with a short, choppy gasp and grabs at Bucky’s ass, yanks him close enough that Bucky’s dick slips over his wet stomach. They don’t stop making out and Bucky’s hips thrust up against him once, twice, and then Clint’s fingers rub a little too close to his hole and Bucky shudders hard.

His wings snap out as he comes, arching high above them.

The shadow fans out across the room, dark and heavy.

Clint stares. He’s breathing hard enough for it to hurt. His back does hurt. Something old and needy buried underneath his skin struggles to break free and Bucky’s eyes go wide for a split second like he’s seen something he wasn’t expecting. It’s gone again a second later, and Bucky sags on top of him a little, closing his eyes.

“And you call me heavy,” Clint croaks.

Bucky rolls to the side so he isn’t crushing Clint’s lungs quite as effectively, but one wing is still draped lazily over him, the other tucked up under Bucky’s back. They’re big enough that the open wing easily crosses the tiny room until Bucky attempts to bring it in closer. The razor-sharp metal tips drag across the carpet but the curve near his shoulder is alarmingly soft and delicate where it’s pressing on Clint’s stomach.

He’s going to get cum stuck on his feathers.

Clint can’t breathe.

“That happened,” Bucky says like he's not sure if it did happen.

“It sure did,” Clint answers, blinking up at the ceiling.

The afterglow feels more like a distinct sense of confusion. He’s not entirely sure what just happened, but he doesn’t feel like the world is crashing down around him anymore. It feels more like he’s slammed pause on all the negative emotions. His brain keeps replaying the last half an hour. He doesn’t have enough cognitive function to properly react to Bucky’s wings.

Bucky, however, seems to be more coherent.

“What would’ve happened? If I’d been the angel instead of… me. What would’ve happened to you?”

“I’d be dead,” Clint says flatly.

Bucky rolls over so his chin is pressed into Clint’s stomach. His expression is more curious than shocked or taken aback. He’s not as old as Clint is, sure, but he’s old enough to be mostly resigned at the thought of death. The assassin part probably doesn’t help. Clint feels bad for him, a little bit. He’s seen some shit.

“And you still fished around in my brain to bring me back. Why?”

“You deserved it,” Clint says. “A second chance. Regardless of what you were.”

Bucky smiles at that. It’s not a huge grin, but it’s slight and soft and a little heartbreaking in a good way. His stomach does that weird flipping thing again and he inwardly berates it. Sure, Bucky’s gorgeous, but still - why does Clint have to possess feelings? They’re more trouble than they’re worth.

“Clint,” Bucky says.

“Yeah?”

“This doesn’t mean I don’t want answers.”

“Maybe I don’t have any answers for you,” Clint replies, and if he could roll away he’d do it.

Bucky braces himself on his elbows, lifts up enough that Clint doesn’t have an ache in his neck from looking him in the eye. Maybe Clint shouldn’t look him in the eye at all. It’d be smarter. A little more tactical, perhaps.

“It’s not like I ain’t grateful - god knows I’d still be stuck as the Soldier without you - but I…”

“You want more,” Clint says, feels every long year of his age all of a sudden.

That’s the thing with humans, isn’t it? They always want more. You could hand them the world on a stick and they’d ask where the rest was. But it’s not like Clint can be judgemental, because he’s just as bad - if not worse - than they are, in the end.

He’s a hypocrite.

 

His phone rings.

It’s an unidentified number but knowing how the world works, there’s only so many people who could call when he hasn’t even activated the Australian SIM card yet. Bucky doesn’t say anything when he rolls over to where it’s sitting in the package, and he doesn’t say anything when Clint tears it out of the packaging and heads into the bathroom.

Once he’s in there his knees feel shaky, so he locks the door and then slides down onto the blissfully cold tiles. He’s too naked for this. He hasn’t had sex with anyone in- oh god, he’s getting old. Not that he wasn’t already old, but when did cooking shows become more important than getting laid?

The phone starts ringing again.

Clint sighs and presses the answer button. “Yeah?”

Bucky can still hear him, but it doesn’t matter.

“Clint,” Steve says. “Thank goodness. I kept asking Natasha if you were alright and she wasn’t giving me a straight answer, and then I called your phone and you didn’t answer.”

“I’m fine,” Clint says, laughs awkwardly and tries not to think about how he’d been touching Steve’s best friend’s dick a few minutes ago. Wow, he had sex with Bucky. What the fuck. “What did you- what’s up, man?”

“I think Natasha’s hiding something from me,” Steve tells him.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Clint doesn’t have the presence of mind to lie convincingly. He lets his legs stretch out across the bathroom, realizes if he wasn’t sitting up he’d be longer than the room itself and tips his head back to look at the water stains on the ceiling. These places aren’t made for someone over five foot.

“I think she’s hiding a lot of things from me, actually,” Steve continues, unaware of Clint’s situation. “I know she’s a spy and that our worlds are completely different, but… I thought she trusted me.”

Clint has his own damn problems to deal with. He sighs, bangs the back of his skull against the door. He wishes he’d done it hard enough to hurt. “She does trust you. Steve, c’mon. She wouldn’t be there if she didn’t trust you.”

The line goes silent for a minute as Steve thinks that over. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to hide things,” he says finally. “She knows everything about me.”

“Nat’s…” Clint starts, doesn’t know how to end the sentence. “She isn't the kind of person to trust blindly or jump into things headfirst. She's seen a lot of shit.”

“I know. I don’t like being in the dark, but you know her better,” Steve says. “You’ve been friends for a long time, huh?”

The answer is yes, but it’s definitely longer than Steve’s thinking. Their SHIELD files had suggested ten, fifteen years of friendship at most, he’s pretty sure. It’s full of lies, though - Clint wasn’t born in 1971, and Natasha definitely isn’t in her thirties. Maybe her thirty thousands. Clint’s still older than she is, to his own misfortune.

“Do you think if I took her out for dinner, she’d say yes?”

Oh wow. “Steve, I am not the person to ask for romantic advice, buddy.”

“I’m asking you for Natasha advice,” Steve replies. “That’s different, right?"

Somehow in the time he’s been away Clint had forgotten that Steve is tactical, and a little bit of a bastard. There’s no one else he could ask about dating Natasha, after all - none of her exes have survived long enough for that, and anyone else who’s known her for this long are in places Steve can’t reach.

This is Natasha’s business. Clint shouldn’t be touching it with a ten foot pole. Especially because part of the reason Steve thinks she’s lying is because she is, about Bucky and Clint and what they’re getting up to being one of the top reasons.

“There’s this diner down in Delaware,” he says. “Broken sign out front, the lights don’t work. Nat’s a sucker for the pancakes they make there, and if you order fries she’ll eat them for you.”

“Can you text me the directions?”

“Sure,” Clint says, finds that he isn’t shocked that Steve would drive to Delaware to get Natasha some pancakes. It’s a funny sort of romance they have going on. He’s kind of glad Steve’s making a move, actually. “She’s going to kill me for giving her away, though, you gotta put flowers on my grave every day.”

Steve laughs. “Roses?”

“Steve, Steve. I’m classy. I expect the most expensive orchids you can find.”

“Alright.”

“And Steve?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t expect her to tell you anything, even if you do this,” Clint says. “It’s not a transaction.”

“I know,” Steve says. “It’s not about that, as much as I’d like to ask her.”

“Alright. Good luck, buddy.”

“Thank you. And Clint? You should come home soon. We miss you. Natasha too, although she won’t admit it.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, feels all heavy and tired suddenly. “Me too.”

The line goes dead a second later and Clint drops his phone on the sink. It’s quiet here, now that Steve isn’t filling up the space with his words. The room beyond the door is silent as well. He’s tempted to just lie here for a couple of hours.

All that talk about trusting people and not letting people in is a little too familiar for his liking. It’s not like Steve doesn’t deserve to know the truth - about what Natasha is, about Bucky showing up as Bucky and following Clint around. The fact that Clint hasn’t been on holiday at all, not really, because he’s been on a mission for Natasha this whole time.

Natasha’s refusal to talk about it all is familiar too.

He’s the Natasha to Bucky’s Steve, isn’t he?

Fuck.

 

When he gets out of the shower Bucky’s still here, luckily.

He’s also still shirtless, and he’s gently combing through some of his feathers. It’s gotten late enough that the moonlight is catching off the silver on the metal edges of them, and his fingers. Bucky looks peaceful like this, wings draped across the bed like an oversized feather cape, expression distant.

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” Clint says.

“I’m sorry I keep pushing you about things,” Bucky returns.

“No,” Clint says. “You’re… it’s fair that you want to know. You’ve spent too long not knowing things.”

“Yeah, well. At least the frustration sex was good,” Bucky reasons, surprising a laugh out of him.

Clint wants to kiss Bucky again.

Clint doesn’t really deserve to kiss him again, though.

He realizes he’s staring a little too much.

Bucky glances up at him and he immediately moves to his sad-looking duffel bag, rummages around for a pair of clean underwear. The only pair he can find is eye-searingly neon green, and Clint hopes like hell that the laundromat down the street will forgive him for dropping a slice of pizza in one of the machines. Otherwise he’s just buying new clothes and saying fuck it altogether.

When he straightens up, Bucky’s tucked the wings in a little closer. There’s something worried in his expression.

“Keeping them in starts to ache after a while,” he offers quietly. “Sorry. I know you don’t like them.”

Clint puts his pants on and then sits down on the other side of the bed, looking out the window so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Bucky. The bed’s small enough that he can feel the shift of cool air against his skin when Bucky moves. “What made you think I didn’t like them?”

“You get this look on your face,” Bucky replies. “It’s the metal, right? People do that with the arm.”

“It’s… not the metal. The steel’s kind of badass, man.”

Bucky snorts at that. Clint feels his own lips tug up into a smile and the motion makes his mouth ache a little. Bucky’s not exactly a gentle kisser, even if he is deliciously thorough about it. They lapse into silence for a minute and Clint keeps looking out the window, sees the harried-looking pizza delivery girl trying to adjust her hijab while balancing the pizza with the other hand.

Mm, pizza.

“So if it’s not the metal…” Bucky says, trails off halfway through the sentence to start another one. “You never do anything.”

“I do plenty of things. Most of them I do with you.”

“No,” Bucky says. “I mean- yeah, you do things, but you do human things. The only time you’ve ever done something weird was to help me and that was one single time. You take planes everywhere and you never heal yourself when you get hurt.”

Clint doesn’t say anything.

“You always act like something’s haunting you.”

“You were haunting me,” Clint says.

“I see things that aren’t me in my dreams,” Bucky says instead of talking about his stalking habits. “Memories that aren’t mine. At first I thought they were because of what Hydra did, but I wasn’t even alive when the library of Alexandria burned down. Also, I’m not blond.”

“Hair dye exists,” Clint says vaguely. “I went blue for a summer once.”

“I’d make a terrible fuckin’ blond,” Bucky says, startling a snort out of Clint. “I know it ain’t exactly convincing when someone just tells you to trust them, but you can. Trust me. It’s okay.”

“I trust you,” Clint replies.

He just doesn’t trust himself. Bucky is remarkably quiet at that admission. Clint sighs and lets himself lean back slowly inch by inch, forcing himself not to jerk away when feathers brush his back. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek and sinks back further, until the solid weight of Bucky’s back and wings are propping him up.

Bucky stays steady. The ache in Clint’s shoulders grows until he can’t breathe and he reaches behind him, finds Bucky’s wrist and wraps his fingers around it. It doesn’t make the pain go away but the soft brush of Bucky’s thoughts lets his lungs work again. He lets go a second later, presses his fingers into the sheets instead.

“The way I see it,” Bucky says. “We’re all we’ve got. With this thing, anyway. Would it be so bad to talk about it?”

“Yes,” Clint answers reflexively. Then he sighs. “Hydra tried to tell you they were doing the right thing when you were the Soldier, yeah? Told you that what you were doing was for the greater good, expected you to follow along without questioning any of it?”

“I guess.”

“I have a mind of my own,” Clint says. “I’m kind of difficult sometimes. You might’ve noticed.”

“I might’ve,” Bucky agrees. “That’s the end of the story, then?”

Clint thinks about blank faces, about the pain searing up his spine and the wind burning his skin. He thinks about being alone for the rest of his extremely long existence and the snap of bone, wet blood on his fingers and a black-winged demon watching him curiously as he struggled to make his broken limbs move again.

Bucky’s wings flex against his back gently and he blinks, lets out a breath. “For now.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says quietly.

“Don’t go looking for anyone else,” Clint says. “They’ll kill you.”

Then he makes the mistake of actually thinking about it - because Bucky’s a hell of a fighter, but he’s untrained and messy when it comes to things like this and they’d kill him within a second. Bucky would be an abomination to them, no matter how many times Clint’s looked at him and thought that he’s beautiful.

They’d tear him to shreds and then they’d erase every memory of him from human history.

Clint’s next inhale comes up audibly shaky.

Bucky must hear it because his weight disappears a second later and Clint’s gripped with a sudden fear but he’s just coming around this side of the bed. His wings are still out, the light making his feathers glow softly. The look in his eyes is gentler than Clint’s expecting and he drops to his knees between Clint’s legs, rubs his left hand on Clint’s thigh. It’s surprisingly comforting.

He’s not going to cry. He’s not.

Bucky holds up one finger and Clint pauses, blinks at it for a few seconds.

He starts rummaging around in his pockets with the other hand without saying anything else. Clint’s- embarrassed, mostly, and a little distressed over being so messy in front of another person even if said person is arguably just as fucked up as he is. He doesn’t know what Bucky’s doing and he really needs a goddamn tissue.

Bucky sets a blue napkin butterfly in his lap gently.

It’s just like the one he’d given to that lost kid and hell, maybe Clint is a little lost in his own way.

“You can keep them out. The wings,” Clint says, nearly inaudible.

They share a bed, so it’s not so weird when Clint tucks his face into Bucky’s chest.

 

His brain feels fuzzy when he wakes up.

Come to think of it, his whole body feels fuzzy, and he blinks his eyes open to realize he’s being cradled by feathers and warm, solid muscle. There’s an arm loosely curled over his hip and one of his thighs is shoved between Bucky’s. Clint blinks his eyes open and sees the napkin butterfly perched very precariously on the pillow in front of Bucky’s nose.

“You always watch people when they sleep?”

“Sometimes,” Bucky says. “Mostly just you, though.”

Clint’s pretty sure he has a hickey. A few, even. It’s too hot for this - the window’s open, but it’s still stuffy and hot as hell in the room. Having a wing draped over him doesn’t help, especially with the sheer size of the thing. It doesn’t stop him from drifting back to sleep with Bucky still wrapped around him.

 

When he surfaces again Bucky’s hand is on his back, gently kneading at the aching muscles of his spine. His back doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does.

It’s nice.

“’m sorry,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “You’re on this mission to find yourself and I’ve been fighting you all the way. I don’t wanna be like Steve ‘n Nat.”

Bucky doesn’t stop touching him. “What the hell’s Steve got to do with it?”

“Nothin’,” Clint says, taps the napkin butterfly with one finger. “It’s nothing. Ask me a question and I’ll answer it. Anything you want.”

“Anything?”

He swallows hard, thinks about the comfortable weight over his side. Runs through the options Bucky could come up with. None of it is anything good, but he’s made his decision and now he’s going to live with it. He’s not Natasha, and he’s not interested in dancing around Bucky anymore than he already has, even if he’s terrified. “Anything.”

“Alright,” Bucky says. “How d’you feel about cats?”

He opens his eyes. “Cats?”

“You know what cats are, Barton.”

“Uh,” Clint says, blinks at him a little rapidly. “Good? I mean, I’m more of a dog kind of guy, but cats are pretty good too.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, doesn’t seem interested in asking anything else.

Clint’s… puzzled.

His frown must be more obvious than he thinks it is, because Bucky purses his lips a second later like he’s thinking.

“You know when you asked me to think of something good? With the…” Bucky trails off and lifts up his right hand to demonstrate. The tip of his pinky lights up, which is an admirable effort for someone who’s only had a few days to figure out the trick. It disappears even quicker than it had lit up and Bucky puts his hand down again, something dangerous in his eyes.

“I guess?”

“I was thinking about that time I kissed you.”

Clint’s stomach does that flipping thing again. All the memories he’s got in his head, and that’s what he was thinking about?

“It wasn’t just a kiss. The sex wasn’t just sex,” Bucky says. “The kiss was- I don’t know, impulsive, but I still wanted something even if I wasn’t sure about it in that moment. I like you. Even though you’re a dick and the age gap is fuckin’ ridiculous, I still like you.”

“The age gap?”

Bucky chooses to ignore him, which is probably for the best. Instead he clasps Clint’s hands in his - one cold metal, one bare skin that sparks heat and memories across Clint’s mind. It’s hard to pay attention to the faint shouts of Steve starting a fight when Bucky’s looking at him like that, though, and then he gets a faint flicker of himself from Bucky’s eyes, looking terrified and a little hopeful all at once.

“I want you to come with me to see Steve,” Bucky says. “And then I want to try the sex without the whole ‘pretend we don’t have feelings for each other’ bullshit.”

“Just the sex?”

“You know what? Just for that, you don’t get a damn choice anymore,” Bucky says.

Clint can’t possibly find a reason to complain about that and then Bucky’s leaning in to catch his lips, feathers brushing against his shoulders as soft as the kiss is.

“I’ll order the plane tickets, then,” he says a minute later.

Notes:

Winterhawk Bingo Square: Unwilling Mission Partners - in which Bucky is still on his mission of figuring himself out, and Clint is exceedingly difficult about it.

I have a wingfic square and I have a specific scene for that! Somehow it didn't fit in eight thousand words of this. What am I doing?

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of so, you're an angel
• Part 15 of Winterhawk Bingo