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“Hey, Buck, you’ve got a bit of, hmm, brain matter, in your hair,” Clint says, waving his fingers at his temples to demonstrate exactly where the problem was. He’s breathing a little hard -- exertion, he tells himself, not fear that this time, Bucky won't come back from this.
“What’s why hair like that isn’t great in this line of work,” he says, because Bucky is standing there, tense and alarmingly still, something far away and blank in his eyes, and Clint’s always been good at charming conversations with emotionally unavailable people.
“It’s not just a matter of impairing your vision on the field,” he says, circling around, coming a little closer, watching carefully and catching the slight flinch in Bucky’s shoulders when he moves too quickly. He paces back a little and keeps talking.
“It’s also a matter of upkeep. Shorter hair’s much easier to rinse clean. Honestly, I can’t believe Hydra didn’t think of that when they kept you with that ridiculous hair -- though it’s totally a Hydra move, going for aesthetics over practicalities -- hey. Hey, there you are.”
Bucky blinks, just once, but once is enough for Clint to see a bit of a shift in the size of his irises, a tiny tremble in his bottom lip -- enough for Clint to see a faint hint of Bucky coming back into a face that had, moments ago, been all Winter Soldier.
“You with me?” Clint asks, and he’s closer now, steps more confident, but still staying out of reach -- Bucky can kill him, easy, with either hand.
Bucky exhales and it’s sharp, harsh, shakes him straight through his ribs and back to his spine where all that cold tension is still coiled up. It’s like a dog shaking off water, all violent movement without regard for the destruction left behind.
But what’s left behind is Bucky, eyes wide and dazed and mouth tight, jaw clenched, breathing quick and ragged.
“Clint,” he says, after his eyes move desperately over the scene surrounding them, looking for a life preserver.
“Hey,” Clint says, soothing, finally stepping close enough to touch. He pushes the palms of both hands against Bucky’s cheeks, grounding him while simultaneously blocking his view of most of the damage. When he’s got Bucky’s full attention, he starts running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, smoothing it back, trying to get most of the mess out without Bucky actually having to see it. He tucks his hair behind his ears and smiles. “There. All better.”
There’s blood on Bucky’s face too, but Clint is pretty sure there’s nothing he can do for that right now besides licking his fingers and rubbing at the mark, and he’s not sure Bucky would go for it.
Behind him, there’s shouting and screaming, which is just about par for the course in situations like this. They saved the hostages, sure. Two dozen school children saved and twice that many bad guys who weren’t quite so lucky and one broken down former Winter Soldier who lost just a little bit more of himself in the saving.
“You’re good,” Clint tells him, because sometimes Bucky needs a reminder.
There’s a faint, sickly smirk on Bucky’s lips now and he says, “Yeah? Am I, Barton?”
“Those kids and their parents think so,” Clint tells him. “I think so.”
There are sirens in the distance -- clean up crew. Clint starts drawing Bucky out of the epicentre of the mess, into the shelter of a distant alley. They can’t run away, he knows that -- that’s the best way to start an international manhunt and Steve always gets worried when he’s got to explain why Bucky took off if he wasn’t guilty of something.
And sure, Bucky killed more than a dozen terrorists (and Clint killed half as many, but he’s not counting.) But if he hadn’t, the kids would be gone and they’d never find them and sometimes, the authorities tend to forget that when the body count gets as high as it did.
“Fuck,” Bucky says, quiet, as they step aside and let the emergency response cars through. The kids are being evacuated from the back of the warehouse, didn’t even see the fight or the mess so the damage isn’t half as bad as it could have been.
“It’s a bit unhygienic but when we get home -- after we shower -- sure.”
Clint’s always up for that. Whether it’s an almost-angry, pent up and aggressive way to work out the frustrations of the job or something more careful, patching up broken pieces with gentle touches and kisses and bits of encouragement -- whatever form it takes, Clint is always gonna be up for that.
Bucky laughs a little -- quiet and shaky but Clint takes it as a win. The day is fucking full of wins.
“The kids --”
“Fine,” Clint says, leaning back against the brick wall, scanning the scene over Bucky’s shoulder -- men in protective gear and bulletproof vests are shouting into cell phones and radio, demanding a perimeter, reinforcements, coroners, victims services for the children, lawyers, a containment van for the Winter Soldier if it becomes necessary.
Which. Well. Over Clint’s dead body.
He pulls out his phone and calls Steve. “Kids are fine,” he starts with, because that’s always going to be Steve’s priority -- at least publicly. “Bucky’s fine. Bit messy.”
“How messy?” Steve says, all Captain America. “Do you need backup?”
“Well,” Clint says. “We didn’t run. So.”
“I’ll be right there. With Tony. And his lawyers. You’ll be home by dinner time.”
“Fucking fantastic,” Clint says. He ends the call and Bucky finally lets the last of that tension leave him, leaning against Clint and pressing his forehead to his shoulder and Clint runs his hands up Bucky’s back, watching the suits argue over who’s gonna have to approach them.
Even this much contact so soon after a fight like this is a victory. Months ago, it would have taken hours to coax Bucky into letting Clint touch him.
Clint smooths Bucky’s hair back and Bucky exhales into the side of his neck and Clint says quietly, “One day, Buck, you’re gonna let me cut this hair for you.”
Bucky laughs again, even as he shakes his head, and Clint just keeps combing his fingers through it.
“Not yet,” Clint allows. “I know. But one day. Until then, let’s get you home.”
It’s part of the routine by now -- Steve and Tony show up with Captain America’s frown of disappointment and Tony’s team of lawyers and Clint and Bucky are home by dinner time. They shower, Clint washes the blood and whatever else out of Bucky’s hair, off his face, scrubs him until he’s clean and glowing with it. Eventually, in a few hours, Bucky’ll be back to claiming he’s fine and Clint will be back to pretending to believe him, and Clint’ll hold him when he wakes screaming from the inevitable nightmares.
And maybe someday, Bucky’ll let Clint cut his hair. Until then, Clint’ll keep washing it clean for him with sweetly scented soaps, drying him off, and taking careful steps towards the time when Bucky’ll claim he’s fine and maybe Clint will get to believe him.