Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clint is starting to feel a certain empathy for sardines in tin cans, stuffed as he is into the very compact overhead luggage compartment.

Maybe now you’ll stop bragging about how *flexible* you are, Nat had said unsympathetically when he complained at the mission briefing, and okay, maybe he does do that, but it’s just so fun to see Coulson blush …

Well, karma is a bitch, and karma in the form of Phil Coulson has resulted in 6 feet 4 inches of broad-shouldered archer twisted practically into a pretzel and slowly smothering in his own carbon dioxide, just waiting for the private plane to reach cruising altitude before he makes his move.

Finally the plane levels off, and Clint starts slowly easing into position, trying to get full feeling back in his limbs before he creeps his way out of the compartment.

He’s found it useful sometimes to do a visualization in his head before he actually runs the op, so as he flexes his fingers and rolls his ankles he imagines himself silently slipping from the compartment, creeping quiet as a wraith towards the cockpit.  Murodova, the scumbag drug lord flying the plane, should be strapped into the pilot’s seat so his movement will be helpfully restricted. Clint can get one arm around his head to tilt it down while the other one slides a knife right between the cervical vertebrae to sever the spinal cord  — a little messy, but no risk of cabin depressurization — allowing Clint to take his place in the pilot’s seat and then smoothly land the plane at the target location, returning to claps on the back and general applause from everyone at SHIELD HQ.

Okay, maybe that visualization got away from him a little bit and entered daydream territory, but he’ll blame that on the carbon dioxide high.  Nonetheless, he’s feeling pretty confident as he uses a lockpick to spring the lock on the luggage compartment door and eases it open, one leg already stretching outward so he can start his soundless, graceful glide toward the cockpit.

Instead he squawks, startles, conks his head on the roof of the luggage compartment, and tumbles to the ground like a ton of bricks, landing flat on his back, breath knocked out of him entirely.

And yeah, maybe not the most chill response for a Level 7 SHIELD agent, but Clint would dare even Nicholas Fury to keep his cool if he happened to unexpectedly catch sight of the fucking Winter Soldier creeping his own way out of the opposite luggage compartment, metal arm gleaming in the fluorescent lights of the cabin.

There’s a frozen moment and then Clint is rolling, lungs still spasming.  His graceless fall probably saved his life, the Soldier’s first bullet thunking over his head, while the second one hits the ground where his heart was just a millisecond before.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t seem to give a fuck about potential cabin depressurization, and in fact there’s already a telltale hiss coming from both bullet holes.

Clint gets to his knees behind one of the seats, knife in his hand.  It’s not great for throwing, but he didn’t even bring a firearm on this mission, a mistake he won’t repeat if by some miracle he lives through this experience.

He’s about to make his move when something happens.

Clint blinks for a moment, trying to make sense of it.  A blinding spike of pain in his head, a feeling of concussive force, and now the world seems to be spinning around him, his head stuffed with cotton wool.

He grabs on tight to the back of the seat as every one of his internal organs seems to jump and twist inside of him, attempting to climb out of his throat.

Oh.  The world is actually spinning, because the plane is in freefall, nosediving toward the ground in a death spiral.

Clint manages a peek around the seat back.  The Winter Soldier has been tossed into the aisle, and is clinging to the strut of another seat with his real hand.  The metal arm hangs limp and useless at his side.

He sees Clint and lets go of the strut, heedlessly allowing himself to get flung around the cabin like a rag doll so he can get the gun in his working hand, raising it.  Clint has a panicked second to look straight down the barrel, impressed despite himself with how accurate the Soldier’s aim is even as he’s being tossed against the cabin walls, and then the Soldier pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.  

A scowl crosses the Soldier’s face, and Clint realizes the green light on the Soldier’s gun has gone out.  Biometric trigger lock, currently nonfunctioning.

Finally, belatedly, he puts it all together.  

“Fucking EMP blast,” he growls, realizing now that all the lights in the cabin are out as well, as are his fancy hearing aid comm devices.

Murodova had apparently earned the wrath of SHIELD, the fucking Winter Soldier, and someone with enough tech to fire a high-powered targeted EMP blast at his private plane, and that would be almost impressive if Clint weren’t about to die because of it.

His stomach lurches again, down into his abdomen this time, and he realizes Murodova has managed to get his hands back on the throttle, pulling the plane out of its nosedive and leveling it off at least a little.  One glance out the window tells him that it’s too late.  They are in the fucking mountains, there’s no chance of gliding this thing to a landing, and soon they’ll be too low to even jump.

On that note, Clint is done hanging around.

He staggers toward the compartment where he knows a few parachutes are stored.  Not standard, but Murodova has made some modifications for which Clint is fervently grateful.  

There are two parachutes and Clint grabs one, hopping into the harness mid-stride and strapping it on via muscle memory as he moves aft toward the cabin door.  Clint takes a moment to shove his knife into the cockpit door lock, jamming it shut.  He appreciates every additional second that Murodova can keep the plane leveled out, but that’s no reason to not complete his mission.  Fortunately a fiery crash will be as effective in killing the guy as a knife to the cervical spine.

The cabin is depressurized enough for Clint to get the door open.  To be honest, he has kind of blocked the Winter Soldier from his mind for the moment, filing him under “problems I’ll deal with when and if they come at me,” but just as he gathers himself to jump he chances one look back, and then pauses.

The Winter Soldier has the second parachute harness on his body, but he can’t fasten the straps with only one functioning hand.  As Clint watches he tries again, unable to make the straps meet, let alone snap the buckles.

The Winter Soldier seems to feel him looking.  He looks up — one despairing, wide-eyed, hopeless glance — before setting his jaw and going back to it, fruitlessly trying to make the straps connect with the weight of his useless metal arm dragging against his side.

He doesn’t ask for help.  It doesn’t seem to occur to him that help is even an option, and maybe that’s what decides Clint.

Or maybe Clint is just stupidly soft-hearted and prone to impulsive decisions, as Nat always tells him he is.

Either way, he’s already moving before he consciously decides.

“Shit,” he grumbles aloud, the familiar feeling of a bad decision settling over him even as he goes ahead and makes it.

The Winter Soldier looks up as he approaches, raising his working arm defensively, but Clint just ducks under his guard and grabs the straps, buckling them at the same time as he uses them to haul the Soldier forward toward the open door, pressing the ripcord handle into the Soldier’s good hand.

“Go,” he says, pushing the Soldier to the edge of the door, and the Soldier gives him one last wide-eyed look and then jumps.

Clint gives it two seconds and then he’s jumping himself, a shallow dive to try to clear the wing and the engines, and a fucking miracle that he manages it, before spreading his limbs to slow his fall while he tries to gauge the distance to the ground.

There’s a hazy mist clinging to the mountains that makes it difficult to judge, and either way it’s going to be a rough landing.

A few seconds before he deems himself the right distance from the ground he sees the other parachute canopy bloom open, a few klicks away, before it gets swallowed up by the mist. 

Well, goddamn.  Looks like the Soldier made it after all.

And then Clint is pulling his own ripcord, bracing himself against the jolt of sudden resistance.  

There’s a wave of sound that he feels more than hears, and a fireball in the distance as the private plane meets the side of a mountain.  No matter what happens next, at least he’s here and not there, Clint thinks philosophically.

Still, the ground is coming up faster than he would like, spiky treetops emerging from the mist, and Clint curls into a ball, trying to guard his most vulnerable bits as he plummets down through the branches, battered and whipped on all sides by what seem to be particularly vengeful pine trees.

He comes to a complete stop still bouncing a little, which means he’s snagged somewhere above the ground.  He takes a moment to breathe before trying to uncurl, stopping with a pained hiss.

There’s a tree branch sticking through the meat of his right thigh, the pain only seeming to catch up with him fully once he catches sight of it.

“Fucking hell,” Clint grumbles, taking a moment to think it through.  If he pulls it the bleeding is going to start.  His comms are dead, which means his trackers are dead.  He’s got no way to communicate his position, and the odds of an exhaustive search turning him up a good distance from the crash site before he dies of hypothermia or blood loss seem to be pretty slim.

He takes a few moments to curse his luck, both good and bad, before unsheathing his backup knife and sawing away at the branch.  The angle is awkward and the way the branch jostles as he saws at it hurts like hell, but he manages to get it cut short enough so that he can let his leg hang, gauging the damage to his body otherwise.

He squints down.  He’s only about twelve feet from the ground.  He’ll have to climb it.

He clings to the tree as best as he can with one hand while he saws at the parachute risers that are keeping him dangling.

With a sudden snap the last one breaks, and he feels his grip on the tree slipping.

“Oh, fuck,” he has time to say, sheathing the knife and trying to grab the tree with his other hand just a little too late.  His fist grips around nothing but pine needles as he falls through the branches, hitting every single one on the way, before thumping to his back in the midst of scrubby vegetation and what are probably the pointiest rocks in the area.

“Sonuva bitch,” he wheezes.

Chapter Text

Probably gonna die out here, Clint thinks with resignation.

The sun is low in the sky, and Clint lost feeling in his fingers and toes hours ago.  He’s not dressed for any kind of extreme weather, in just a t-shirt and his tac pants, and the temperature is definitely dipping well below freezing already.  Blood is still leaking around where the tree branch protrudes from his thigh, despite the hem of his t-shirt he’d sacrificed to fashion into a bandage.  He’s dizzy and light-headed, and he stopped shivering about twenty minutes ago.  

Unless some friendly moose wanders by and offers himself up for Clint to crawl inside, tauntaun style, he’s probably not going to survive the next few hours.

It’s not a terrible way to die, as far as these things go.  It’s not like Clint ever planned on living out a long and peaceful life, and at least he took Murodova down with him.  Hell, the man killed kids just to keep people in fear of him, and Clint hopes he suffered at least a little bit before he exploded in that fireball.

Clint feels a little more conflicted thinking about the Winter Soldier.  He saved a life there, sure, but whether it was going to add a good deed or a sin to the weight of Clint’s soul in the long run he doesn’t really know.  It’s always been mysterious who exactly the Soldier is and who he works for.  All the rumors can’t possibly be true — hell, some of the Soldier’s supposed assassinations took place well before the man Clint saw could have even been born.

And he shot Nat, and shot at Clint, but then again, he didn’t end up killing either of them, and Clint has never been one to begrudge a little exchange of bullets between friends, having been lightly shot by both Nat and Coulson in his inglorious past.

In any case, it’s quiet out here, and the scenery is pretty, and from what he remembers hypothermia is not a terrible way to go.  He’ll probably get overheated and then sleepy, and never wake up.  He knows that his team won’t stop looking until they get absolute confirmation, and so they’ll recover his body, as long as animals don’t get him, and give him a proper burial.  At least he knows someone is missing him, and there’s at least two people who will grieve for him, and it’s more than he’s had for most of his life.

Still, he keeps walking because it’s just not in him to lay down and die, at least not yet.  With the same stubbornness that kept him practicing with his bow until his fingertips bled he just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.  It’s just as the sun is going down for good that he sees something that doesn’t fit — a shadow in the distant trees that’s a little too squared-off to be natural.

Probably most people would have missed it, blending in with the landscape as it did, but they don’t call him Hawkeye for nothing, and so he fixes the position in his mind and heads toward it, ignoring the way his legs increasingly stumble and drag as the last streaks of sunset fade away and there’s nothing but starlight to guide his way.

His mind has been drifting, but fortunately his stubborn-ass body has been plugging along, because Clint blinks and realizes the structure is in front of him now, maybe twenty yards away.

It’s a small hunting cabin.  It’s unlikely to have heat or electricity, and it looks uninhabited, but it’s shelter, and Clint is beyond relieved to have managed to make it within striking distance.  Just a little longer … a little farther …

He’s almost surprised when he blinks to awareness again to find himself leaning against the door, panting desperately.  He shoves the index and middle fingers of his left hand into his mouth and then his thumb, trying to warm them.  When he feels them start to prickle with pins and needles he fumbles his lockpick set out of the pocket of his tac pants.  It takes him long enough that he would be ashamed under any other circumstances, but eventually he gets the lock open and swings the door wide.

“Fuck me.”

It’s a small one-room cabin, dark and dusty, and notable primarily for the fact that the fucking Winter Soldier is inside, straightening up from where he was hunched by the fireplace, drawing his knife.

Clint tries to backpedal out the door, and instead bumps up against the doorjamb.  The protruding edge of the branch through his thigh catches on the frame of the door and wrenches, sending a shock of pain through his whole body.

Goddammit, Clint manages to think as he falls backwards onto the cold hard ground and blackness swallows him.

Clint slowly blinks back to awareness.  He’s warm, is the first thought in his mind, warm and cozy from head to toe.  He’s curled up on his left side, and there’s a long line of heat all down his back, a warm strong arm wrapped around him, clasping him tight.

Would you look at that, there’s a heaven and I made it there, Clint thinks to himself in amazement. 

There’s a rumble of noise and vibration but not enough for Clint to make it out, and he has a moment of surprise that his hearing is still fucked even in heaven.  He turns around and comes nose to nose with the fucking Winter Soldier.

He pushes back with a strangled yelp and falls right out of the bed, onto his back for what must be the fourth time in this series of misadventures.  He’s pretty sure his back is one giant bruise by now, but he can’t be bothered by that when the Winter Soldier is peering down over the edge of the bed, scowling at him.

“I told you not to move,” he reads from the Soldier’s lips.  “You’ll tear your stitches.”

His … and, okay, now that Clint is taking stock he realizes the branch is gone, his thigh neatly bandaged with what looks like a strip of a flannel shirt, and apparently stitched up underneath.  He slowly levers himself up to sitting, every muscle in his body seeming to pull and ache.

“I’m mostly deaf,” Clint says, absently, signing along as is second nature for him when he doesn’t have his aids in.  “Can’t hear you if I can’t see you.”  He’s still taking in the details, but the biggest one seems to be that the Winter Soldier is no longer interested in killing him, and has in fact saved his life.  Huh.

“Why,” Clint starts, and then gestures vaguely at his thigh, the fire roaring in the fireplace despite pale light coming through the windows, and the bed, pulled near enough to the fire that Clint’s lucky he didn’t roll right into the hearth when he fell out of it.

And look at that.  The Soldier looks almost shy, the blades of his truly devastating cheekbones pinkening, his pale grey eyes skittering away before slowly making their way back to meet Clint’s gaze.

“Why,” [why] [?] the Soldier says and signs at the same time.  He imitates the motion of buckling a parachute harness as best as he can with one hand, and now it’s Clint’s turn to get shy.

“Dunno,” Clint says, shrugging.  “Seemed a good idea at the time.”  He squints at the Soldier.  “You sign?”

[little] the Soldier obviously tries to sign, and flinches as the useless metal arm fails to cooperate, a furrow of pain deepening between his eyebrows.  

“Here.”  Clint levers himself up slowly, hopping a little to find his balance, before spying the remains of the flannel shirt that was apparently sacrificed for his bandage.  “C’mere.”

The Soldier approaches, slowly and warily, and Clint rolls his eyes.

The tails are cut off the shirt but the rest is mostly intact.  Clint grasps the Soldier’s metal wrist and manipulates the arm until the elbow is bent across the Soldier’s belly.  The joints are lax enough that it’s easy to move but it’s fucking heavy, and Clint grimaces a little thinking about how all that dead weight must feel pulling on the Soldier’s back and spine.

“Hold it here,” he says, and the Soldier seems to comply almost automatically, holding the metal wrist in place while Clint wraps the body of the shirt around the metal forearm and over the elbow and then ties both sleeves at the side of the Soldier’s neck, making an impromptu sling.

“There,” he says with satisfaction as the Soldier tentatively loosens the grip on his wrist, letting the sling take the weight of his arm, before arching his eyebrows in surprise, that little furrow of pain between his eyebrows lessening.

[thank you] the Soldier signs, somewhat haltingly, and then they both stare at each other for a long, awkward moment.

They are finally interrupted by a loud grumble coming from Clint’s stomach that Clint feels more than hears.  The Soldier looks startled, squinting suspiciously at Clint’s stomach as if it’s going to attack, and Clint can’t help laughing.

“Yeah, okay,” he says somewhat nonsensically.  “Anythin’ to eat around here?”

Chapter Text

It could definitely be worse.  

The Soldier has set Clint’s clothes on the hearth, and makes no comment as Clint slips back into his tac pants, knife still sheathed along the thigh, but stays shirtless while he explores the little cabin.

There’s a small dresser with a few clothes — more flannel shirts and a few pants, all unfortunately cut for someone much smaller than Clint.  No coats or other cold-weather gear, sadly.  Clint tries on one of the flannel shirts.  Even with the front unbuttoned, sleeves about to split around his biceps and cuffs only falling to mid-forearm, it’s still better than his cut-off t-shirt, which is practically a crop top at this point.

Apparently there’s well water that tastes just a little metallic but is clean and crisp as Clint gulps it down voraciously, hopping a little as he works the pedal pump with his good leg.  A wood-burning stove and a pantry take up one corner of the cabin, stocked with enough canned food that they are probably not going to die of starvation.

There’s a composting toilet in a little side room, and even a stack of firewood in a lean-to around the back.  Clint takes a moment to thank whatever gods are in charge of luck for weary travelers that he doesn’t have to take the axe from the wall and go off to chop his own firewood for the next little while.

He does take careful note of the axe, of course, and he’s sure the Soldier has clocked it already as well, although neither of them makes a move towards it.  Clint feels like taking the approach of “we’re in this mess together” has worked for him so far, and so he plans to carry on with it.  

On that note he fires up the wood-burning stove and opens a few cans of what looks to be lentil stew, dumping them into a beat-up saucepan and setting them on the stove to heat.

When the food is bubbling hot he divides it evenly between two metal bowls, setting them on a small rickety table near the stove and putting spoons beside each.

He sits down in one of the two chairs, blowing on his spoonful a little before shoveling it into his mouth.  After a moment he looks around, finding the Soldier still sitting on the bed, staring expressionlessly in his direction.

“You’re not hungry?” Clint says, gesturing at the other chair.

The Soldier rises slowly, approaching the table in a wide circle, keeping Clint in his sight at all times.  He stares somewhat suspiciously at the chair, the food, and Clint, before hesitantly perching on the edge of the chair.

He looks into the bowl, and then back at Clint, and Clint wonders if the Soldier thinks that he somehow poisoned it, even though he made it in full view of the man.

Not that Clint couldn’t manage that bit of sleight of hand if he were so inclined, but why the Soldier thinks that he would is somewhat beyond him.

“You allergic?” Clint asks finally, as the Soldier does nothing but continue to stare.  He feels bad stuffing his face in front of the man, but he’ll be damned if whatever the Soldier has going on keeps him from his first real meal in what must be at least a day.

“I am … allowed?” the Soldier finally says haltingly.

“Allowed?”  Clint freezes with the spoon halfway to his mouth, wondering if he read that one wrong off the Soldier’s lips.

The Soldier nods sharply, though, and Clint takes a moment to puzzle it through.

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed?” he finally asks when he can’t for the life of him make sense of it.

The Soldier’s eyes haze over with confusion a little.  Then he blinks.

“You’re not my handler,” he says.  And fuck, but Clint really wishes he could get a better sense of the tone of his voice, because the little quirk of the Soldier’s eyebrows made that almost seem like a question.

“I’m not your handler,” Clint confirms.  Did the Soldier maybe hit his head or something?  He watches as the Soldier simply stares down at the stew again.  He licks his lips, but doesn’t make a move to pick up the spoon.

Fuck.  Something in Clint’s stomach turns over, bile rising in his throat.

“It is allowed,” he says, making the words sound as convincing as he possibly can.  “You can eat whatever you want, whenever you want.  You can drink whatever you want, whenever you want.  You can use the toilet, and sleep, and do whatever else you want to do, whenever you want.”

There’s a moment when the Soldier looks at him wide-eyed, almost panicked, and then he falls on the stew, shoveling it into his mouth quickly, barely stopping to breathe before swallowing each mouthful.

“Hey —” Clint reaches out, touching the Soldier’s forearm, and the Soldier flinches, dropping the spoon and raising his head.  He looks like he’s bracing himself for — fuck, for some kind of punishment — and the sick feeling in Clint’s belly grows until he’s worried the food he ate is going to make a reappearance.

Clint swallows and takes a moment to breathe shallowly through his nose.  He keeps his movements calm and predictable as he picks up the Soldier’s spoon and presses it back into his hand.  “I just meant, take it a little slow.  If you’re not allowed — if you haven’t eaten in awhile you may need to take it slow.”

The Soldier nods and starts eating again, slower this time.  After a moment Clint gets up, refilling his water glass and filling one for the Soldier as well, setting it down by the Soldier’s plate in silent invitation.

While the Soldier is eating, Clint goes through the pockets of his tac pants, finding his medkit.  It’s undisturbed, which means the Soldier must have fixed Clint up with his own supplies.  He feels the Soldier watching with interest as Clint pokes through the kit, pulling out some antibacterial gel, and a couple of pills from different blisterpacks.

“Broad-spectrum antibiotic,” Clint explains, poking at the first capsule, slightly yellowish in color.  “And painkiller,” he adds, poking at the second one.  He considers the Soldier.  The man is still dressed head to toe in his tactical gear and Clint hadn’t noticed any hitch to his movements outside of the nonfunctioning arm, but he’s not sure that the Soldier would let on if he were injured otherwise.  “I got other stuff, if you need anything.”

“I am functioning within acceptable parameters,” the Soldier says, like that means fuck-all.  “And I am resistant to infection and immune to the effects of most medications, drugs, and poisons,” he adds casually.

“Handy,” Clint remarks, while in his head he is screaming, What the fuck?  What the *fuck*?! because how in the hell do you figure out you’re resistant to most poisons without someone repeatedly trying to goddamn poison you?

He swallows the pills rather than let any of those thoughts spill out of his mouth.

The Soldier is scraping his spoon around the bottom of the bowl, gathering up the last of the stew.

“There’s more if you want it,” Clint offers, and the Soldier looks startled for a moment, and then shakes his head.

For lack of anything better to do, Clint starts emptying the rest of his pockets onto the table, checking over his gear.

The Soldier just watches, and Jesus, Clint needs to have something else to call him.

“So what’s your name?” Clint asks.  The two lockpicks he used to pick the door are missing from his kit, he must have dropped them.  He reminds himself to look for them before it gets dark.  

“I am the Winter Soldier,” the Soldier says, and Clint gives him the flattest look he can manage.

“No shit,” he says.  “But what’s your name?”   He pulls a spare bowstring from the depths of one of his pockets, and idly wonders if it’s worth carving himself a bow.

The Soldier’s eyes haze over again in that way they do sometimes.

“I am also called The Asset.”

“Well, that’s fuckin’ dehumanizing,” Clint blurts out, and then winces.  “Shit, I’m sorry.  My brain-to-mouth-filter doesn’t always work.  But, seriously, no name?  You must have had one before you got the … um … title of Winter Soldier, right?”

The Soldier is starting to look a little panicked now, muscles around his eyes tightening, making the white of his eyes visible all the way around his pale irises.  “I am the Winter Soldier,” he finally says again.

“Okay, sure,” Clint says, aiming for soothing.  “That’s fine.  I’ll call you Soldier, and if you think of somethin’ else you want to be called, just let me know.”  The Soldier subsides a little, although there’s still a fretful furrow to his brow.

“I’m Clint, by the way.”

“Clint,” the Soldier repeats.

Clint’s fake passport and a little local currency are still intact in a zippered pocket of his tac pants.  He only prepped for a mission of a few hours, and was aiming for stealth creeping around the aircraft, so he’s carrying what he would consider a minimum load for any mission.

“So what’s your plan?” he asks the Soldier while he rifles through the rest of his pockets in case there’s some resource he forgot about.  “The plane left from Dushanbe and I’m guessing that puts us somewhere in the Pamir mountains, although hell if I know where.  I’m going to sit tight and wait for my team to retrieve me.  It might take a while, but they’ll find me.  How about you?”

“I must stay here for five days.  If I am not retrieved by then, I must go in search of the nearest base.”

“Nearest base?  I don’t know what kind of base you’re after, but there’s not gonna be one within walking distance.”  Clint pulls a ceramic knife he didn’t know about out of a pocket near his ankle.  That one must be thanks to Nat, bless her.

“If I am not retrieved in five days I must go.”

Clint runs a hand through his hair in frustration.  “You go out there on foot, that’s a death sentence.”

The soldier looks away for a long moment.  “I will not die.  I will freeze perhaps, but I am used to it.”

Well, what the fuck does that mean?  Clint gives up for the moment.  He’s got his own problems, and even though half of what the Soldier says gives him the fucking creeps it doesn’t exactly change much about their current situation.

The garrote wire is just fine, despite the bloody hole through the pocket it was in.  And, ugh, Clint probably should wash these pants now that he knows he’s not in imminent danger of death-by-Russian-assassin.

Finally, Clint pulls out the fried hearing aid/comms he had stashed in his pocket, as well as the spare pair of BTE aids and batteries he keeps in a case in his tac pants.  

He tries to remember his briefings on EMP devices.  Anything connected to an antennae gets the worst of it, he thinks he recalls.  He’s pretty sure the batteries are unaffected, but when he puts them in the spare aids those don’t seem to work either.

Clint sighs.  He also has a set of small tools and a magnifying glass, but he’s always been better with engines than with electronics.  Still, he unscrews the little plate that covers one of the comm aids and looks inside.

Damn, even he can tell the circuit board is completely fried, half melted.  He sighs, tossing it aside.

After a little thought he opens the plate on one of his regular hearing aids.  That doesn’t look quite as bad.  If only …

“Here,” the Soldier says.  He produces something from one of the many pockets in his tactical vest, and Clint looks at it for a moment.

“Holy shit.  This is awesome.”  It’s a miniature butane-powered soldering iron.

“I am authorized to make limited repairs,” the Soldier says, gesturing at his arm.  “But this damage is beyond my capabilities.”

No shit, Clint thinks.  If his tiny little hearing aid comms were this fried, he can’t even imagine what that EMP did to the extensive circuitry that must be powering that arm.

It takes Clint most of the afternoon, but by the time the light is fading he has cobbled together enough working parts from both aids to get one functioning BTE.  He loops it behind his right ear in relief, handing the soldering iron back to the Soldier.

He stands up, rolling his neck and stretching his back.  Daylight is short at this time of year and latitude, but he’s about done for the day anyway.

“Dinner?” he suggests, and the Soldier nods briefly.

Clint can’t read Tajik, but pulls two cans with different pictures on them from the pantry and holds them up to the Soldier.

The Soldier looks at him blankly.

“I picked the menu for lunch, I figured you could pick dinner.”

The Soldier looks back at the cans, and then back at Clint.

“Well, which one do you want?” Clint prompts.

The Soldier looks at Clint again, eyes narrowed as if he’s expecting this to be some kind of trap.  Eventually, however, he lifts a finger and points to one of the cans.

“Cool.  Beef stew, maybe?” Clint says, looking at the picture.  “Looks good.”

“Kaurmo shurbo,” the Soldier says, hesitantly.  “Mutton.”

“Oh.  Works for me.  I’ll eat just about anything.”  Clint relights the fire in the wood stove and opens a couple of cans of the stuff, setting them to heat.  While that’s going he retrieves his lockpicks from where they fell outside, and then without much modesty drops his pants in the main room and unwraps the makeshift bandage around his leg.  

The Soldier actually did a hell of a job, his stitching neat and evenly-spaced on both the entry and exit wounds with no gaping, the area colored with the distinctive brown stain of Betadine.  Nothing looks alarmingly swollen or infected so far.  Clint applies his own antibacterial gel for good measure and rewraps it.

He starts to pull his pants back into place, but then reconsiders.  It’s only going to get colder once the sun goes down.  

“Hey,” he says, as he pulls off the pants and holds them up.  “I think I’m gonna wash these.  That okay with you?”

He could have sworn he felt the Soldier’s eyes on him, but when he turns around the Soldier is staring down at the tabletop.  He looks up now, though, and Clint doesn’t think he’s imagining the way the man’s eyes drift downwards, taking in Clint’s chest and abdomen, before jerking back up to Clint’s face.  

And maybe he’s just figuring out best places to slide in his knife should it come down to that, but from the blush across his cheekbones Clint thinks that maybe that’s not the reason.  Or at least, not the only reason.

The Soldier shrugs.

And that’s not exactly a yes.  “I’m gonna need you to say,” Clint presses.  “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

There’s a long moment, and then the Soldier finally speaks.  “I will not be uncomfortable.”  The corner of his mouth quirks up.  “It will give me something to look at.”

And hell if that wasn’t a legitimate joke.  

Clint laughs and preens a little, flexing his biceps.  “Yeah, well, I’m happy to provide the eye candy.”

The Soldier looks away again, blushing a little more, and maybe Clint pushed it a little too far.  Oh well.  There’s not much else to do here and flirty is his default setting.  He’ll try to tone it down a little.

Chapter Text

The Soldier is quiet over dinner and Clint is too, caught up in his thoughts.  The Soldier has given him plenty to think about, and he also can’t stop thinking about his team — if they are looking for him yet, if they think he died on the plane when it exploded.  Nat is constantly threatening to implant a tracker in him; she’ll be mad to know that the one time it would have been useful it would have been disabled by the EMP anyway.  

He washes up the dishes, the Soldier silently moving into place next to him and drying as he washes.  It’s surprisingly companionable.

The temperature in the cabin started to drop as soon as the sun went down, and Clint gratefully gets back into his pants as soon as they’ve dried by the fire.

He throws another log on the grate, banking it as best as he can so it’ll last at least partway through the night, and spreading the clothes from the drawers onto the bed as well to provide extra layers.

He looks up to find the Soldier’s eyes on him, and pauses.

“You okay sharing the bed again?  Sharing body heat’ll help, an’ I don’t think either of us will get much sleep otherwise.”

“I can function within appropriate parameters for seven days without sleep.”

“What?”  Clint moves closer, trying to read the Soldier’s expression in the flickering firelight.  

He’s gone all blank-faced again.  It’s creepy how he seems so full of personality at some times and so robotic at others.  

“Are you worried about someone sneaking up on us?” Clint hazards.  “I can take first watch if you need me to, I slept last night.”  Well, he passed out is more accurate, but he figures it counts all the same.

“I can function within appropriate parameters for seven days without sleep,” the Soldier repeats.

Clint squints at him a little.  “Well, that sounds like a load of crap.  Even if you’re able to, why would you want to?  Seriously, I can keep watch if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The Soldier has that vague look again.  Clint sees his lips mouth the word want but he doesn’t seem to be saying it out loud unless Clint’s BTE is glitching.

The Soldier blinks a few times, and then his expression hardens into something determined.  “I am forbidden from sleeping on a mission.”

Oh, shit.  The Soldier’s psyche appears to be a fucking minefield, and Clint does not like the visual he’s developing of that particular landscape.

“How come?” he asks, instead of trying to countermand the directive immediately like he did with the eating.  It worked, but it seemed to send the Soldier into a bit of a tizzy.  

“Because …”  The Soldier seems to flounder briefly, before hitting upon the answer.  “Sleep degrades the programming.”

“Programming?  What programming?”

The Soldier blinks at Clint for a long moment.  “Programming,” he finally says, gesturing sharply at his head as if that explains anything.

Something occurs to Clint — a little farfetched, but then again the world is a goddamn crazy place these days, and the tech in that metal arm is above and beyond anything Clint has ever seen.  “Do you have … were there electronics in your brain?  That the EMP affected?”  It would explain why the Soldier appears to be not quite playing with a full deck sometimes.

Instead the Soldier just rolls his eyes, demonstrating more personality than Clint has seen from him to date.  “Not that kind of programming.  Just — programming.”  He swallows thickly, his eyes widening with what seems to be remembered horrors.  “The chair.  Electricity.  Pain.  Then Я готов отвечить.  Mission briefing.”

“Я готов отвечить,” Clint repeats.  “Ready to … to serve?”

“Ready to comply,” the Soldier says woodenly and then looks away.

Motherfucker.

The little puzzle pieces the Soldier has dropped in conversation are starting to come together in Clint’s head, and the total picture is a fucking nightmare.  The Soldier seems to be programmed — fuck it, calling a spade a spade, brainwashed — into compliance to his handlers.  Forbidden from eating or sleeping for days, not even knowing his own name.  Apparently subject to extensive tests of his healing and susceptibility to poisons.  And then there was that thing about freezing ...

Clint thinks back to some of the other conversational beartraps he’s left unsprung over the past day.  It’s probably time everything gets out in the open, or at least as much as the Soldier is willing and able to tell.

“You said … you said in five days if you’re not retrieved, you must attempt to find a base.”

The Soldier still hasn’t made eye contact again, but he nods.

“What happens if you don’t?”

At that the Soldier does meet Clint’s eyes again, looking alarmed.

“Punishment.  Pain.”  He shakes his head.  “I must.  It is a core directive.  It overrides all mission objectives.”

“And if you do return to base.  What happens then?”

The Soldier flinches.  “Debrief.  Wipe.  Storage.”

Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask, Clint thinks.  You don’t want to know.

“Storage?” he asks.

The Soldier nods.  His face is just blank now, as if he’s commenting on the weather.  “Cryostasis.”

I will not die, Clint remembers the Soldier saying.   I will freeze perhaps, but I am used to it.

Clint sucks in a sharp breath and then stamps down on his natural tendency to run his mouth.  He forcibly wrenches his mind away from the thought of what it might be like to be frozen, over and over, knowing each time what it’s going to feel like.  How long have they been doing this to the Soldier?  It must feel like dying every time —

Shit.  Pull it together, he tells himself.  You freaking out isn’t going to do him any good.

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a few moments, trying to consider his words carefully.  

“So there are core directives that are always true.  And then mission objectives.”

The Soldier nods.

“And your mission objective was to eliminate Murodova.”

“Yes.”

“And Murodova is dead.  So … your mission is complete.  And you are allowed to sleep when your mission is complete.”  It degrades the programming, the Soldier had said, and if ever there was a consummation fucking devoutly to be wished that sounds like one to Clint.

The Soldier’s brow furrows.  He seems to consider for a long moment, trying to find a flaw in the logic.  “Yes?” he finally says hesitantly.

“Then it’s settled.  You’ll sleep.”  

“You’re not my handler?”

This time, with his BTE on, Clint can clearly hear the question in the Soldier’s voice.  And for one fraught second he thinks about lying, wonders whether it would be better for the Soldier in the long run if …

No, his stomach roils just at the thought of it.

“I’m not your handler,” he confirms again.  “But … maybe I’m your friend?”

The Soldier twitches as if he’s been shocked.

“Friend?” he repeats, as if the word is new to him.

“Yeah.  Sure.  Bosom buddies.  BFFs.  Best pals.”  Clint’s mouth is running without his permission again, fueled by his embarrassment at having expressed an emotion.  He’s never been good at that heart-to-heart shit.

“Pals,” the Soldier repeats.  His mouth twitches with just the hint of a smile.

Clint busies himself climbing under the covers, arranging the clothes just so.  “C’mon, big spoon or little spoon?”  Shit, he’s overcompensating, acting absurdly casual out of sheer awkwardness.

The Soldier seems hesitant as he approaches the bed, but eventually he gingerly makes his way under the covers as well.  He’s still in his full tac suit, although at least his boots are off.

“Why are you talking about spoons?”

“You know.”  The Soldier is lying on his back, and Clint shoves a little at his shoulder.  He gets a glimpse of the Soldier’s confused face, which is frankly hilarious, before the Soldier follows Clint’s guidance and turns on his right side, back to Clint.  

“Now you’re the little spoon,” Clint says, curling around the Soldier’s broad back, tucking his knees in behind the Soldier’s knees and looping his arm loosely around the Soldier’s waist.

He takes the Soldier’s right wrist in his and pulls as he turns back, until the Soldier is nestled against his back, arm around his waist.  “Now you’re the big spoon,” Clint says.  “See?”

The Soldier is silent for a long moment.  Clint realizes he’s still holding the Soldier’s wrist and lets go, starting to turn onto his back.  “Or, I’m mostly kidding, we don’t really hafta snuggle, I mean, it’s gonna get pretty cold but we can —”

“This one,” the Soldier says, tightening the arm around Clint’s waist until he’s pinned into place back on his side.  “Big spoon.”

“‘Kay.  Fine by me.”  It’s more than fine, actually, Clint has always secretly liked being the little spoon.  He likes being held close, feeling protected.

And damn, isn’t that a crazy thought, that having the Winter Soldier at his back makes him feel protected and not terrified.  Still, it’s hard to connect the man Clint is starting to know with the deadly Winter Soldier.  Clint still knows that the Soldier could kill him with just his pinky if he saw fit, but he’s just … he’s not worried that he’s going to.

“I’m taking my aid off now.  Any last words?”

“Yeah,” the Soldier says, and Clint can hear the smirk in his voice as he presses a little closer, body a line of warmth all down Clint’s back.  “G’night, pal.”

Clint snorts with laughter as he pulls his aid out, dropping it to the floor next to him where he’ll be able to find it easily in the night.  It’s only as he settles back, drifting to sleep, that it hits him that the Soldier had said the words with some kind of old-timey American accent instead of the heavily Russian-accented stilted English he had demonstrated so far.

Huh, Clint thinks as he drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Clint wakes up, hands fumbling for the side table before he remembers that there isn’t one.  He scoops his BTE from the floor as he rolls off the bed, landing in a crouch and taking stock as he flips the aid on and loops it over his ear.

The Soldier is lying on his back, twitching.  His lips are moving but Clint can’t read them in the waning firelight.  He presses the earmold in.

“ — anan.  Sergeant. 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant.  32557038. Barnes, James — no.  Please.  Stop.  No — please.  Sergeant —”

Shit.  

“Hey,” Clint says, straightening up but keeping his distance.  He’s tempted to reach out and touch to rouse him, but he knows he’d be taking his life into his hands to do so.  “Soldier.  Hey.”

The Soldier bolts upright, twisting awkwardly as he seems to try to brace himself with the metal arm before compensating, vaulting straight out of the bed on his side and taking a few stumbling steps back until he’s pressed against the far wall.

“Stevie?” he asks incredulously, squinting at Clint.

Clint realizes he must be silhouetted against the firelight and raises his hands, easing around so that some of the light falls on his face.  “Clint,” he says.  

The Soldier just stares at him for a long moment, wide-eyed and sweating, before he seems to come to full awareness, his whole body slumping against the wall as if he’s having trouble keeping his feet.

“Clint,” he repeats.  “I thought —”

Whatever he thought seems to stick in his throat.  He runs his fingers through his hair, freeing the strands that have stuck to his damp face.

Clint’s whole body is thrumming with adrenaline.  There’s no way he’s going to be able to go back to sleep now.

“I’ll get another coupla logs for the fire,” he says to the Soldier, trying to give him a little space to calm down, and maybe Clint needs a moment too.

Sergeant. 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan.

That’s not something a Russian operative would be taught to say, or a mercenary.  That’s an American name, rank, and serial number.

Sleep degrades the programming, Clint hears again in his head.  He already suspected the Soldier was brainwashed.  He thinks back to the flashes of personality the Soldier has shown — how his accent seems to soften and change. 

This whole thing is turning more complicated than Clint had ever imagined.

Clint adds logs to the fire, taking his time arranging them just so.  Finally he straightens up, turning around and almost swallowing his tongue.

The Soldier is standing at the kitchen sink, stripped down to the waist.  The flannel sling is still in place but does nothing to hide the extensive scarring, gnarled and knotted livid tissue surrounding where the metal arm is burrowed into his skin.

The Soldier runs the wet, crumpled cloth he’s holding over the back of his neck, and Clint can’t stop his eyes from drifting over the breadth of his shoulders, following the droplets of water as they trickle down the graceful sweep of his spine, dampening the waistband of the tac pants at his narrow waist.

The Soldier dips the cloth into the sink again and the movement jolts Clint out of his trance.  He turns back to the fire, blinking against the flames, trying to burn the afterimage of the Soldier from his retinas.  

Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him?  Is he really perving on a brainwashed, traumatized, prisoner of war?

The Soldier makes a soft noise, low and deep in the back of his throat, as he throws his head back and lets the water trickle over his face and down the exposed line of his neck, his hair falling soft and loose around his damp shoulders.

Clint feels something squeezing in his chest, some odd mix of lust and tenderness and protectiveness at the soft, relaxed look on the Soldier’s face.  He looks unbearably young like this, all the lines of pain and stress smoothed away, lips slightly parted as he sighs at the simple comfort of the cool water.

They’re not getting him back, Clint thinks, suddenly, fiercely.  The thought has been there from the time he first started to suspect that the Soldier was unwilling, but it suddenly coalesces into a burning resolution.  Over my dead body.

Clint stays quiet for most of the morning, trying to give the Soldier some privacy, but he can’t stop the thoughts that are circling in his head.

Finally, when he has heated up yet another stew and they are both sitting at the table, he starts with what he hopes may be the least intrusive of his questions.

“You said ‘five days.’  Does that include the day of the mission?”

The Soldier furrows his brow.  “The programming will tell me when to go.  But — “  He looks distant for a moment.  “Yes.  I believe so.  Today is the third day.”

Shit.  That’s not a lot of time.  Clint can hope that his team finds them first — can hope that two or three more nights of sleep erode the Soldier’s programming enough to prevent the core directive from kicking in — but after the life he’s had Clint knows better than to count on luck.

Clint stares down into his bowl for a bit, trying to weigh the risks and benefits of putting pressure on what seems to be the Soldier’s fragile psyche.  

“Who’s Stevie?” he finally asks, as casually as he can.

“What?”  The Soldier looks up, grey eyes so intent on Clint that he feels like he’s being x-rayed.

“When you first woke up.  You thought I was someone else.  Called me ‘Stevie.’  Is he —”  Clint doesn’t think so, but sometimes false information gets a more genuine response than true — “Is he your handler?”

And whatever response Clint hoped for it wasn’t this, the Soldier practically turning grey, looking like he’s going to faint for a moment before he pushes away from the table, starting to pace.

“No!”  He runs a hand through his hair in agitation.  “Stevie is — Steve is —” He freezes in place, like a clockwork that has suddenly slipped a gear.

“Soldier?”  The Soldier remains silent, half-turned away from Clint, his arm frozen, his fingers still tangled halfway through his hair.  Clint shoves to his feet, moving around until he can get a better look.

The Soldier’s eyelids are mostly shut, fluttering rapidly to show just a sliver of the white of his eyes, and Clint can see the movement as his eyes dart back and forth behind the lids.  It looks creepy as hell, and as Clint watches he realizes that the Soldier isn’t even breathing.

“Hey,” he says.  “Hey!”   He reaches out, placing his palm against the Soldier’s chest, and the Soldier sucks in a gasping breath, eyes springing open.

The Soldier starts to falter a little and Clint is moving before he even realizes it, getting a shoulder under the Soldier’s good arm to steady him.  He guides the Soldier to the edge of the bed, helping him sit down.

The Soldier just looks dazed.  Clint gets him water, steadying the glass while the Soldier drinks, and then flutters around ineffectually, straightening the pillow behind the Soldier’s back and making sure his metal arm is supported as he lies back.

“Clint?” the Soldier finally asks, his voice blurry with confusion.

Clint presses closer, his hip against the Soldier’s thigh, watching the Soldier’s eyes track a somewhat wavering line until they lock onto his.  “Yeah.  It’s me.  I’m here.  Are you — are you okay?”

The Soldier’s breathing has evened out.  “Yeah.”  The Soldier’s eyelids flutter closed again, as if they are too heavy to keep open.  “Wh’happened?”

“I’m not sure.”  Clint feels like shit.  Whatever the hell that was — some kind of seizure or something, maybe — Clint is pretty sure he caused it by pushing.  “Let’s not do that again, huh?”

“‘Kay.”  

Clint is too wound up to do anything productive and too worried about the Soldier to leave his side.  He ends up sitting on the bed as well, close enough to the Soldier’s side that he can feel his warmth but not touching.  He picks anxiously at his ragged cuticle, wondering if he should apologize or explain, or if that would risk making things worse.

The Soldier seems to be just resting, not asleep but maybe dozing.  Clint chews at his lip, his mind restlessly pulling apart the information he has so far, speculating wildly about what is to come.

If the core directive kicks in and the Soldier insists on leaving in two days, should Clint try to stop him?  Is he even capable of doing so?  

Sure the Soldier is down an arm, but Clint is injured as well, and — when it comes down to it, if it’s a choice between hurting the Soldier or letting him go, Clint’s not sure he could do it.  

But wouldn’t it hurt him more to let him leave?  There’s two possibilities there — that he freezes out in the wilderness, or that he makes it to some base and is back in the hands of the bastards who have been brainwashing and using him.  But if Clint keeps him prisoner here, is he any better than the Soldier’s current handlers?

The thoughts keep running in a dizzying circle, filling Clint with dread.  There don’t seem to be any good options here, and Clint is famous for his bad decisions, so he’s the last person who should be making one this important —

He looks up and realizes the Soldier is watching him.

“Oh.  Hi,” Clint says awkwardly.

The Soldier seems tired but calm, his eyes fully aware now.  He pulls in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.

“I — I think I remembered somethin’.”

Clint’s breath catches in his throat.  He turns more fully toward the Soldier, searching his expression for some clue.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  The Soldier furrows his brow.  “I think I remember … Steve.  I think maybe — I think maybe he was my friend.”  

“Oh.”  Relief tightens Clint’s throat.  At least whatever the Soldier just suffered he maybe got something good out of it.  “Wanna tell me about him?”

The Soldier is quiet for long enough that Clint thinks he’s not going to answer.

“Okay,” he finally says, soft enough that Clint’s BTE barely picks it up.

Chapter Text

They are both pretty quiet through dinner, lost in their own thoughts.  

Clint is still thinking through the memories of Steve that the Soldier had shared.  They were fragmented — just disjointed scenes, really.  

In some of them Steve seemed to be small — a kid, all knobbly knees and bloody teeth.  In others Steve seemed to be big, and it was nice to think that the Soldier had a friend like that, his whole life long, even if he could only remember bits and pieces.  God knows Clint had never lived in one place long enough to have a friend for more than a few years, even if he could find anyone who would put up with him for that long.  Not until Nat, at least.

But the Soldier had recalled little flashes of memory — the occasional place, a person’s first name, the taste of Steve’s ma’s cabbage soup.  And his voice had been affectionate, calling Steve a punk, and a mook, and a goddamn stubborn sonuvabitch, Clint you wouldn’t believe it, that little knucklehead would fight Satan on a Thursday and square up against almighty God himself on a Friday.

Most of the time Clint had spent only half-listening to the stories and half-listening to the way the Soldier’s voice had changed.  His English became fluid and easy, his accent softening again.  And Clint has been a spy for awhile and had a knack for languages even before then, and he can’t help taking note of the way the Soldier started voicing his t’s and dropping his r’s, the way his vowels started broadening the longer he spoke.   

Clint has lived in Bed Stuy long enough to recognize a Brooklyn accent when he hears it, but something was just a little off-kilter, making Clint think once again of old-timey radio shows and detective movies that come on late at night when his insomnia kicks in.

And then there’s the issue of some of the words and details in the Soldier’s fragmented memories.  Listening to ballgames on the radio, and fixing up a Buick Roadster.  Watching Marlene Dietrich at the picture palace.  It’s not that any of that is impossible to have happened in the last 30 years, but unless the Soldier was a hipster before hipsters were even a thing …

Storage, the Soldier had said.  Cryostasis.  Even thinking about it sends shivers down Clint’s spine.

There’s no discussion this time as they head to bed.  They wash and dry the dishes and then Clint banks the fire, turning around to find the Soldier already in the bed, blanket flipped down invitingly on Clint’s side.

Clint smothers a grin, sliding in and feeling the Soldier immediately snuggle up behind him, wrapping his working arm around Clint’s waist.

Clint’s hand is moving to his aid, ready to unloop it from behind his ear, when the Soldier reaches out and grasps his wrist.

“Yeah?” Clint asks.  He tries to turn around but the Soldier keeps him pinned to his chest, with enough strength to indicate intent even though Clint knows he could easily break free if he wanted to. 

He subsides instead, leaving the aid in for now, and feels the Soldier press his forehead to the back of his head, feels the Soldier’s shuddering breath tickling the nape of his neck.

“What happened earlier?” the Soldier finally asks, his voice hoarse.  “When I remembered Stevie?  I don’t — we were at the table, an’ then —”

Clint swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.  “You — it looked like some kinda seizure, or something.  You just kinda froze in place — and I mean totally froze in place, not breathing or nothin’, and you — your eyes were moving like you were dreaming, but you were just standing still.”  Clint squeezes his eyes shut as if he can hide from what he’s about to say.  “I think that — I think that they don’t want you to remember.  I think they want it to hurt you if you remember.”

He doesn’t know what he expected — surprise, or anger, or shock.  Instead the Soldier just makes a noise in the back of his throat, a resigned kind of hum.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he says, and somehow that’s worse, that it doesn’t even faze him.

“We’ll figure it out,” Clint finds himself saying.  “I won’t —”  He won’t what, though?  Won’t let the Soldier go, or won’t imprison him the way others have?  “We’ll figure it out,” he ends weakly.

“Yeah,” the Soldier says, skepticism clear in his voice.  “Sure we will.  G’night, pal.”

“G’night,” Clint echoes.  This time he slides his BTE under his pillow within easier reach.

Clint wakes up sprawled on his back, the Winter Soldier’s head on his shoulder, his right arm across Clint’s chest and one heavy thigh across Clint’s legs.  The world’s deadliest koala, and Clint feels his heart turn over in his chest, slow and inexorable.

The Soldier makes a soft noise, nuzzling into Clint’s collarbone a little more as Clint shifts to put his BTE on.  Clint can feel the Soldier’s soft hair catch on his stubble, four day’s worth of growth now because Clint is not quite desperate enough to risk shaving with a knife blade.  He must look ridiculous — he knows his beard grows in red.  Not the flame red of Natasha’s natural color but something dark and coppery, like Barney’s hair used to be.  Still probably is, wherever Barney is these days.

The Soldier makes another soft noise, and tilts his head up.  His eyes are still mostly closed, a soft smile on his face.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he rumbles, and then he’s pressing his lips to Clint’s, soft and warm.

In an instant, every desperate urge that Clint has been repressing seems to break free.  He melts into the kiss, fingers trailing into the Soldier’s hair as he kisses the Soldier back, coaxing his lips open so he can kiss him soft and deep and desperate.  The Soldier's lips part eagerly.  He hums a soft noise of pleasure into Clint’s mouth, and then he opens his eyes more and —

— and jolts back so suddenly that Clint is left with a few strands of dark hair tangled in his fingers.

The Soldier rolls all the way to the other side of the bed, getting his feet on the floor, back turned so that Clint can’t see his face.  His shoulders are heaving as if he can’t catch his breath.

“Sorry,” Clint chokes out, heart sinking down to his belly.  “Guess you weren’t really awake yet, huh?  Probably — probably thought I was Steve again or somethin’.”

The Soldier flinches at that but doesn’t deny it, and Clint feels something bitter and ugly twist in his chest.  Christ, what the hell is wrong with him?  He should be glad that the Soldier had — has? — someone.

“I’ll get some more wood for the fire,” he forces out, and throws himself off the bed before he can do something else stupid.  The temperature has dropped in the night.  It’s bitingly cold, but Clint stands out in the lean-to for longer than he should in just his boxer briefs, trying to at least get his reckless body under control.  There’s nothing he can do about his reckless heart.

The rest of the morning is awkward. The Soldier seems to be avoiding eye contact and Clint can’t help but do the same.  He occupies himself by pulling a thread from one of the flannel shirts and using the suture needle from his medkit to patch up the tear in his pants, sitting close to the fire to keep warm.

“About time for lunch?” he asks when he’s done.

There’s no response, and Clint’s head snaps up.  The main room of the cabin is empty, and the door to the toilet room is open wide.  The Soldier can’t have left — it’s only the fourth day — unless they miscalculated —

“Shit,” Clint grinds out.  He runs for the cabin door, throwing it wide, and then screeches to a stop on the porch — or at least that’s his intent.  Instead his feet skid and slide until he rams right into the porch railing and almost topples over it.

It’s snowing, big fat flakes falling and turning the harsh grey and brown landscape a brilliant white, and the Winter Soldier is just standing out in it, looking wonderingly up at the sky.

Clint watches as he holds out a hand, studying the flakes as they fall onto the palm of his black glove and melt.

The Soldier lifts his head, eyelashes frosted, dark hair rimed with snow, and smiles, soft and warm and unbearably sweet.  “It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice hoarse with wonder.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees.  He’s just standing there like an idiot in his boxer briefs, bare feet in a quarter inch of slushy snow, with his mended pants clutched to his chest.  He’s freezing his ass off but he can’t make himself look away and go inside, not just yet.

Clint has pulled himself together a little more by the time the Soldier comes in from the snow, stomping his boots and shaking himself off in the doorway to keep from tracking snow into the cabin.

Well, Clint has his pants on at least, and has the wherewithal to offer the Soldier a flannel shirt to dry himself off with, so he’s going to count it as being relatively pulled together, even if the little hair flip the Soldier does sends a shock of lust straight through him.  He thinks he hides it okay.

Clint has the stew-of-the-day bubbling on the stove already, so he serves it up while the Soldier sets his tac vest and gloves to dry by the fire.

They settle down to eat, and somehow it’s not as awkward as it was before, some tension in the Soldier seeming to have been released by his romp in the snow.

“Not a lot of snow where you’re from?” Clint finds himself asking.

The Soldier responds with an epic eyeroll.  “The Winter Solider,” he says, gesturing to himself with a smirk.  The smirk fades from his face, replaced by a somewhat wistful expression. “I have trained in the snow.  I have — the details have been wiped, but I know I have had many missions in the snow.  I just — I never remember it being so beautiful.”

“Oh.”  Clint bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet.  Don’t go back there , he wants to yell.  Don’t let them force you back into whatever half-life you were living before.   But it’s not the Soldier’s choice.  If there’s anyone who has a choice here, it’s Clint.  He’s just damned if he knows which one to make.

Clint is still lost in thought, too many feelings all tangled up inside his chest, as they settle in side-by-side to do the scant dishes.  He’s probably been scrubbing the saucepan for longer than necessary when the Soldier startles him by speaking.

“It wasn’t — I wasn’t dreaming about Steve,” he says abruptly.

The saucepan slips out of Clint’s grip and clatters against the side of the sink.

“Oh?” he says inanely.  

The Soldier is staring down at the bowl he is wiping dry.  It can’t possibly have a drop of water left on it, but he’s diligently scrubbing it with the scrap of flannel they’ve been using as a dishtowel nonetheless.

“They didn’t let me sleep.  It was too dangerous.  So there were missions, and then there was storage.”  He assiduously scrubs at a nonexistent spot on the plate.  “So I didn’t remember dreaming.  I was confused.  But I was —”

The Soldier pulls in a deep breath, his eyes finally darting up to meet Clint’s.  “It was you I was dreaming of.”

“Oh.”  Clint turns.  The Soldier stands his ground, so that they are only inches away.  Clint pulls the cloth from the Soldier’s grasp, drying his own hands and then carefully setting the cloth on the counter.  “So, that’s all right then.”

“Yes.”  The Soldier smiles, just a quirk of those pink lips and a deepening of the creases at the corners of his eyes that nonetheless makes Clint’s heart flop around in his chest.  “That’s all right then.”

The Soldier reaches out, pushing back the cowlick that tends to flop hair onto Clint’s forehead no matter what he does.  His fingers are warm, gentle as they trace down the side of Clint’s face, rasping through the scruff of his beard.

This time when their lips meet it’s more tentative — a chaste brush and then they both pull back to check in.  

“Are you sure —” Clint starts to say but the Soldier interrupts him, crowding him against the counter with the bulk of his body, stopping his words with another kiss.

This time he kisses Clint hard and frenzied, like Clint is everything he’s ever wanted.  And Clint wants to hold back, wants to be more cautious this time, but it’s no use.  The way the Soldier’s lips move seekingly against his, the way the Soldier’s hand curls around his jaw, the way the Soldier presses closer and closer, making soft little sounds into Clint’s mouth like even that isn’t close enough — Clint is helpless to resist, every last coherent thought melting away in the face of the Soldier’s tender desperation.    

By the time Clint finally breaks free, gasping for breath, he’s a little dizzy.

“You seem pretty sure,” he says weakly.

The Soldier has been biting little kisses down the sweep of Clint’s throat but he raises his head at that, meeting Clint’s eyes seriously.

“I am,” he affirms.  “But are you?   It won’t —”  He pulls in a deep breath, biting his lower lip for a moment before starting again.  “It can’t change anything.  I won’t be able to stay.  When the command comes through, I won’t be able to stop myself.  And you won’t be able to stop me either.”  His eyes widen, his grip tightening where his hand has drifted down to Clint’s waist.  “Promise you won’t try to stop me,” he says urgently.  

Clint freezes up.  He won’t make a promise he can’t keep, but he also knows better than to tip his hand.  The truth is, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.  He finally lets his breath out in a sigh.  

“I promise that I won’t force you to stay,” he says carefully.  It’s the best he can do, and the Soldier seems to realize that.

“Are you —”  The Soldier is leaning closer, his eyes drifting back to Clint’s lips, but he stops an inch away, eyes dragging back up to Clint’s.  “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Clint isn’t sure at all.  This is a bad idea, but he’s broken his own heart for less.

He forces an easy smile onto his face, the kind that fools most everyone into thinking he doesn’t have a care in the world.  “Take every shot, right?” he says, trying to make it sound casual.

It doesn’t seem to fool the Soldier.  His expression clouds over, and he pulls back instead of pushing forward.  His hand drops away from Clint’s waist, leaving Clint feeling chilled.

“This isn’t fair of me to ask,” he mutters, starting to turn away.

“Hey.”  Clint pulls the Soldier back towards him.  There’s a moment of uncertainty, where he feels like he’s falling without a net, and then he lets the mask drop.  It scares him a little, what he must be showing on his face.  He knows he feels too much, too soon, but he lets the Soldier see it anyway — all his fear and uncertainty and longing.  As foolish as it might make Clint look, the Soldier deserves the truth.      

“I’m going into this eyes open,” he says.  “I know — I know it can’t last, but I still want this.  Want you.”  He doesn’t want to pressure the Soldier, so he tries to keep the kiss light, chaste.  When the Soldier’s lips open underneath his, however, he can’t help himself from taking everything he wants.  He feels greedy, desperate.  Maybe because he knows this can’t last — he’s going to grab what he can with both hands.

“If this is all the time we have, then we better make it count, huh?” he finally pants when they part again. 

The Soldier searches his expression again for a long moment and then he smiles, slow and sweet, and Clint feels another little chunk getting chewed off his heart.  “Yeah,” the Soldier repeats.  “Let’s make it count.”

Chapter Text

Clint is going to die.  Clint’s dumb, reckless heart is going to explode in his chest because apparently the Soldier’s definition of making it count means stripping Clint down, spreading him out on the bed, and exploring every inch of his body with single-minded, erotic intent.

The Winter Soldier is going to torment Clint to death just by the way he keep bringing Clint to the edge, teasing him with his mouth and fingers, before backing off again, leaving Clint sweating and shaking and whining.

“Please,” Clint finally grinds out, shameless.  He feels hot all over, sensitized over every inch of skin that the Soldier has kissed and licked and marked with deadly precision.

The Soldier slides back up Clint’s body, seeming to not be hampered at all by having the metal arm still bound by the sling.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he croons, taking a detour to suck neatly on Clint’s nipples which are already rosy and puffy from his efforts.  He looks up through the sweep of his dark lashes, pale eyes glinting mischievously.  “What is it you want?”

Clint rolls his hips up, desperate for friction, but the Soldier keeps his body levered up just a hair’s breadth away.  Clint got the Soldier’s shirt off and the sling back on before they hit the bed but the Soldier’s still wearing his tac pants, goddamn him.

“Anything,” Clint says, his breath hitching.  He squeezes his eyes shut, and wonders if those are actual tears he feels prickling at the corners.  “You can have anything you want.”

“Oh, Christ,” the Soldier breathes, and Clint can suddenly see how much more affected he is than he’s letting on.  “You’re so fucking sweet,” and then he surges up, biting at Clint’s lower lip a little before devouring his mouth.

“I can take you,” Clint manages when he next gets the chance to breathe, pulling his scattered thoughts together.  “If you want — with just spit — I can take it, I don’t care —”

“I have lube,” the Soldier interrupts.  He’s flushed even in the dimming late afternoon light, pink along the crest of his cheekbones.  “For the arm,” he adds almost shyly.  “Would you really —”

“Jesus, yes, please.” 

The Soldier tilts to the side a little, fishing a packet out of one of the pockets of his tac pants without even looking.  Once he has it though, he seems less certain, avoiding Clint’s eyes.

“I’m not sure,” he starts.  “I don’t remember —”

“I can do it?” Clint offers and the Soldier looks relieved.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says.  “Yeah.”

Clint snags the packet from the Soldier’s hand and then rolls them, getting started on the button and zip of the Soldier’s tac pants while the Soldier seems to still be adjusting to the change in position.

“What are you doing?” the Soldier asks, blinking down at where Clint’s hand is dipping into the spread of his fly.

“Gotta see what I’m working towards,” Clint grins, and the Soldier rolls his eyes even as he’s eagerly kicking his pants off the rest of the way.

Holy shit, the Soldier has been going commando this whole time, and that’s definitely something that would have eaten away at Clint’s sanity by now if he had known.  

He’s big, too, and it’s been a while for Clint, but Clint is surely fucking motivated and it helps to have the Soldier looking almost awestruck as he watches Clint work himself open, the Soldier’s hand grazing over Clint’s overstimulated skin before dipping down to feel where Clint’s slick fingers are moving, twisting and thrusting in and out of his body.  

“Holy fuck,” the Soldier breathes.  “That’s — does that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Not as good as you’re gonna feel,” Clint huffs, and he sees the shiver go through the Soldier’s body at the words, his cock twitching where it’s lying flushed and hard against his belly.  He knows the Soldier’s imagining getting inside, what it’s gonna feel like.  Does he even have any memories of this at all, or is this gonna be like the first time for him?

Suddenly Clint can’t wait anymore.  “I’m good,” he says.  “I’m — yeah.”

There’s not much lube left in the packet but there’s enough to slick up the Soldier’s cock, letting it slide thick and hot through his callused fingers a few times.

“Fuck,” the Soldier says.  “Fuck, that’s —”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees nonsensically, and then he’s raising up, watching the Soldier watch him intently, his pupils blown wide and dark as Clint rocks down and down and down, working himself open the rest of the way on the Soldier’s cock until there’s no more to take.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” the Soldier mutters, hand grazing up Clint’s thigh, and Clint starts to move just to distract himself from the way his chest is aching.  It’s better to feel the sting, to concentrate on the way the Soldier fills him up, hot and hard and just right, just there, as Clint braces his other hand on the Soldier’s good shoulder and flexes his thighs.

The Soldier is grasping the sheet now as if he’s not sure he can control himself; corded tendons standing out on his forearm as he twists his fingers into the fabric.  His skin is sheened with sweat, firelight flickering over golden skin and glinting metal, and Clint wants to go slow, wants to draw this out, but he can’t help himself.

His heart is thumping in his chest, his skin prickling all over, and there’s nothing but pleasure now, nothing but heat and friction and the way the Soldier is slowly coming unraveled underneath him.  The Soldier throws his head back, hair spreading out across the pillow, but his pale eyes are still watching avidly from under hooded eyelids, as if he can’t stand to miss a moment.

“Fuck.”  Clint can feel the burn in the large muscles of his thighs, the stretch all down his back as he rides the Soldier harder, fast and frantic.  “Fuck, fuck.”  He can’t hold back — he needs it too bad, needs to come and needs to see the Soldier come undone in equal parts.

The Soldier is close too, hips flexing up to chase the sensation every time Clint lifts up, punched-out noises of pleasure escaping his lips every time Clint sinks down.  He’s beautiful, so beautiful, and he looks at Clint like Clint is something wonderful, and it’s not fair that this is all they’re gonna get, it’s not fair —  

“You don’t belong to them,” Clint finds himself panting out, words hitching.  He’s desperate now, so close he can feel it gathering, low in his belly, shuddering up his spine.  “You’re not theirs, you’re mine.  My Soldier.”

Something shifts in the Soldier’s expression and then he’s wrapping his arm so tight around Clint’s back that it’s probably going to bruise and Clint wants it to, wants the Soldier to leave a mark, to leave proof that this happened.  

The Soldier pulls him down until they’re pressed skin to skin all down their bodies, sweat-slick and fever-hot.  “Yours,” the Soldier growls into Clint’s ear and the word makes Clint clench down, and then he’s coming, so hard it almost hurts — a white-hot wave of pleasure that leaves him shaking and crying out as he spills into the close space between their bodies.  

The Soldier jolts his hips up once, twice, and then he’s coming too, pressing his face against Clint’s neck and shuddering.  “Yours,” Clint realizes the Soldier is muttering against his skin, punctuating each word with another grind deeper into Clint’s body as if he can’t get close enough.  “Yours, yours, yours.”

If only it were fucking true.

Time goes a little fuzzy for awhile there.  The sun has set and the fire is near to going out by the time Clint blinks back to awareness.  He shifts, making a little disconsolate noise as the Soldier slides free of his body.  

The Soldier rumbles a wordless response, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Clint’s back.

Clint can’t help hissing a little as the Soldier rubs across a sore spot.

“Shit,” the Soldier says hoarsely, craning his head to where there is no doubt another bruise beginning to darken.  Huh, he must have some pretty freaky night-vision.  “I’m sorry, I —”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Clint mumbles.  “It was perfect.”

The Soldier subsides, resting his head back against the pillow.  “Yeah,” he says meditatively.  “It was perfect.”

Clint can’t let that go unacknowledged, he really can’t, so he lifts his head and kisses the Soldier, soft and sweet, trying to convey everything he can’t put into words.  And then his belly growls loudly, ruining the moment.

The Soldier laughs into the kiss and then rolls, flattening Clint into the mattress with his weight for a good, long moment before he rolls all the way off the bed, scratching his stomach and grabbing his pants off of the floor.

“I’ll get the fire going if you start the stove?” he suggests, and Clint grumbles but rolls to his own feet, pulling on his pants as well.

He puts some water to heat first.  The Soldier finishes stoking the fire and comes up behind him, circling an arm around Clint’s waist and resting his head on Clint’s shoulder, making an inquiring noise.  

“Figured we could clean up a little,” Clint explains, shivering a little from the press of the Soldier’s cold chest against his back.  The Soldier hums happily against Clint’s neck and so they strip down right next to the stove, taking turns swabbing each other down with a warm, wet cloth.  

Turns out the Winter Soldier is ticklish along his ribs, and can’t seem to get enough of gentle touches, and Clint tries to file each and every moment away in his memories.

The cabin is still colder than usual, the fire still getting going by the time the food is warm.  Clint just grabs the whole saucepan and two spoons and they hunker down under the covers, alternating spoonfuls, talking about this and that.  

By unspoken agreement they don’t talk about the things they just said, or what might happen tomorrow, or the next day.  

There must have been considerable travel time to Dushanbe, did that count in the five days?  Clint imagines waking up in the night and finding the Soldier just gone, and his chest squeezes tight.  He decides to sleep with his hearing aid in, crummy as that usually makes him feel.

When the last of the soup is gone the Soldier takes the saucepan and both spoons and sets them carefully aside.  He pulls Clint into his arms again and they kiss long and slow, languidly making out as if they have all the time in the world.  

Clint wants to stay awake but he’s wrung out from the events of the day.  He finds himself blinking slower and slower, losing moments in the gaps between presses of their lips.

Finally the Soldier grabs Clint’s wrist, turning onto his side and pulling Clint snug into his back.

“Little spoon,” he murmurs, and Clint snickers into the nape of the Soldier’s neck, holding him tight as they drift to sleep.

Chapter Text

Clint is hiding.  His dad hasn’t found this spot yet, underneath grandma’s old china cabinet, wedged as far back as he can get.  If Clint stays very still and doesn’t breathe …

His father’s boots stomp through the room, getting closer and closer.  One boot lands half on one of the cans of food that got dropped when the fight started, and he stumbles.

He goes down hard, landing on one elbow, cursing incoherently, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain.  When he opens them again Clint is right in his line of sight.

“There you are, you little bastard,” he snarls, giant hand reaching forward as Clint presses back as far as he can go, trying to melt into the wall, but it’s not far enough —

“Clint.”  The voice is gentle, as different from his dad’s angry snarl as night and day.  “Sweetheart.”

Clint sucks in a sharp breath and jolts into full awareness.  The Soldier is near but not too close, turned to face Clint, his eyes shadowed with concern.

Clint scrubs a hand over his face, embarrassed.  “Shit.”  He rolls over onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling for a minute.  It’s been awhile since he had one like that.  “Sorry.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for, sweetheart.”  The old-timey accent is on full display and it helps dissipate the last remnants of Clint’s dream.  

The Soldier reaches out, slow enough that Clint could easily head him off, and rests his palm against Clint’s shoulder.  Clint can’t help but press up into the touch and the Soldier seems to take that as a green light, pulling Clint fully up against his chest with his good arm, holding him close.

Clint can’t say he minds.  It’s good — really good, in fact, to just lay still for a little while, listening to the Soldier’s steady heartbeat while his own settles down, his head rising up and down with every slow breath the Soldier takes.  He’s never had this.

He wants to tell the Soldier something — tell him how nice this is, or thank him for doing it, but everything he thinks of just sounds painfully awkward, even in his head.

“What time d’you think it is,” he asks instead.

“Still middle ‘a the night,” the Soldier murmurs.  His hand is rubbing soothing circles on Clint’s back.  It’s just — it’s just really nice.  “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

Clint doesn’t want to, he wants to stay awake for this — to cherish the low rumble of the Soldier’s voice in his ear, the warmth of the Soldier’s chest against his cheek, the way that deadly hand is so gentle and tender as it tirelessly rubs the tension out of Clint’s back.  But he feels comfortable and safe now, and between one breath and the next he slides back into sleep.

He wakes up still sprawled across the Soldier’s chest.  He’s got one arm wrapped around the Soldier’s waist, nestled snug against the sling-bound metal arm, and his leg is resting heavily across the Soldier’s thighs.  He’s probably drooled on the Soldier’s right pec a little bit.  Oops.

The cabin is pink with the light of dawn, and the Soldier looks like he’s been awake for awhile.  He’s just watching Clint, a soft expression on his face.  It makes Clint feel a little shy, remembering his nightmare last night, and even before that — the things he had said to the Soldier in the heat of the moment.  

He turns his face into the Soldier’s chest a little more.  The Soldier smells good, all sleep-warm, and he shivers as Clint’s stubble scrapes against his skin.  Clint stretches a little, his thigh brushing a little higher, and — well, good morning to Clint.

“I see you’re up already,” he says with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle.

“Well,” the Soldier rumbles.  With only one arm he easily hauls Clint up a little higher, manhandling him until he’s just in the right spot, Clint’s legs tangled up with his, their hips aligned to give them both a delicious taste of friction.  It’s insanely hot.  “I wake up with a good lookin’ fella like you in my arms, I can’t be blamed, can I?”

Clint blinks a few times.  “Did you just — are you flirting with me?”

The Soldier starts to duck his head and Clint stops him with a kiss.  “Aw,” he says, rewarding the Soldier with a dirty little grind.  “I like it.”  He fucking loves it.  “I have to warn you, though,” Clint says, letting his expression go serious.  “I don’t know if you’ve figured this out yet, but I’m kind of a sure thing.”

There’s a beat before the Soldier seems to process the words, and then his eyes narrow.  “Asshole,” he huffs, and then he pokes Clint right in the side, making him squirm.  “See how lucky you get after pullin’ that nonsense.”

But Clint had marked the Soldier’s ticklish spot earlier, and he gets his revenge, both of them squirming and poking and tussling until Clint calls for a truce and collapses back on the Soldier’s chest, still panting and chuckling.  The Soldier acquitted himself pretty well given that he was one arm down.  

“Oh, I think I’m pretty lucky alright,” Clint says when he’s finally caught his breath, stretching up for another kiss.  He rolls his hips again and they just kiss for awhile, slow and lazy and languid.  Clint can tell it’s cold outside the little cocoon of the covers, but right now he’s warm, and still a little hazy from sleep.  His muscles ache pleasantly, and the Soldier’s lips are warm and soft and hungry.

The Soldier’s hand trails down Clint’s spine, and he pulls Clint into the next roll of his hips a little more firmly, and that’s — oh, fuck, that’s good.   

Clint licks his palm and reaches down to hold them both, pleasure rushing up his spine at the feel of the Soldier’s hard cock pressed the whole length of his.  “This okay?” he asks, but the Soldier is already throwing his head back, making a delicious little noise in the back of his throat.  

Together they rock into Clint’s grip, slow and easy at first, and then faster and faster as they get more desperate.  

“Jesus, I’m close,” Clint breathes.  “Are you —”

“Yeah, sweetheart.  C’mon,” the Soldier urges.  His hand is on Clint’s face now, thumb brushing along his cheekbone, achingly gentle in contrast to their frantic movements.  His lips are parted, a flush creeping from his cheeks down to his chest.  He’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him, and yet Clint can’t look away.  

“Let me see it,” the Soldier says and Clint does, he can’t do anything else, pinned by the Soldier’s silver gaze as the pleasure rolls over him, shuddering through him in waves until he’s dizzy with it.  He feels broken open, laid bare, but he lets the Soldier see everything he’s feeling.  

“Look at you,” the Soldier murmurs.  “Beautiful.”   Then he’s coming too, a low, shocked sound escaping his lips as he arches up into Clint’s grip, adding to the slickness spilled over Clint’s hand.

Clint sags down onto the Soldier’s chest, pressing a clumsy kiss to the Soldier’s collarbone.  The Soldier’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Clint’s head, fingers tracing through the short hair.  

Clint is shaking a little, and the Soldier pulls him closer.  “Shhh,” he murmurs.  “I gotcha.”

Clint wraps both arms around the Soldier, squeezing him tight.  He presses his ear against the Soldier’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, and lets himself pretend that this is something he can keep.

It’s mid-afternoon and Clint’s stomach is growling again by the time they finally make it out of bed.  Clint heats water for another clean-up, and then sets yet another couple of cans of stew to heat on the stove.  

“Pancakes,” he says dreamily, as he divides it up between the two bowls.  “Waffles.  Curly fries.  A cheeseburger with bacon and onions.”

The Soldier raises an eyebrow.

“Just thinking about all the things I’m gonna eat when I get outta here,” Clint says.

The corners of the Soldier’s mouth turn down, and Clint feels his heart sink.  What the hell is he thinking, running his mouth like that.  He’s been trying to push it out of his mind, but he knows that the Soldier doesn’t have anything to look forward to.

“Hey, I didn’t mean —” he starts.

“Brisket,” the Soldier interrupts.  

“What?”

“I think I remember — brisket.  With kugel.  For — for special occasions.”

“Oh.”  Clint feels some of the tension ease out of his shoulders.  “Yeah, that sounds really good too.  I’ve never made brisket.  Maybe I could give it a try.”

It’s a nice dream, thinking that there’s some possible future in which he might have the Soldier over for a meal.  

“You cook?”

Clint waves his spoon at the soup.  “What, you couldn’t tell?”  He pretends to be offended, but cracks after just a few seconds.  “Nah, I’m just kidding.  Yeah, people usually think I can’t ‘cause most of the time I can’t be bothered, I just live off of pizza and coffee.  But I’m not half bad when I make an effort.”  

I’d make an effort for you, he thinks.  If I ever got the chance.

Chapter Text

Clint is finishing up scrubbing the saucepan, the Soldier at his side drying the bowls and spoons, when he realizes the Soldier is humming.

He finishes up with the saucepan and puts it next to the sink for the Soldier to dry, and then leans against the counter.

“I know that one!”

“Hmm?”  The Soldier looks up.  

“That song you were humming,” Clint explains.  “Are the stars out tonight … I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright … I only have eyes … for you … dear …” he sings.

“I was?”  The Soldier’s brow is furrowed.  “I don’t think I know — I don’t remember that song.”

“C’mon!  You must know it if you were humming it.”  Clint takes the Soldier’s hand, pulling him into his arms.  He sways them from side to side a little.  He knows he’s being ridiculous, but it’s worth it to see the Soldier’s lips curve into that shy smile of his.  “The moon … may be high … but I can’t see a thing in the sky …”

And now the Soldier is singing too, his voice deep but hesitant, stumbling over the words a little but growing stronger.  “I only have eyes … for you.”

“See!  You got it,” Clint says.  He spins the Soldier out a little and then pulls him back in until the Soldier’s head is tucked underneath Clint’s chin.  And the Soldier must have learned to dance at some point.  He was letting Clint guide him around at first but now he’s leading, his arm tightening around Clint’s waist, pulling him closer as they step and turn.

“I don’t know … if we’re in a garden,” Clint sings.  “Or … on a crowded … avenue … darling you … you are here … so am I … maybe millions —”

The Soldier stumbles, and they both stutter to a halt.  

“What’s wrong?” Clint asks, laughing.  “Did I step on your toes?  I know my voice isn’t —” he trails off, the words sticking in his suddenly-tight throat.

The Soldier has his head turned half away, his eyes distant.  

“Do you hear something?  Is someone coming?  It could be my team,” Clint says, but he already knows that’s not what’s happening.  The Soldier is eerily still, all the life drained out of his expression.  Clint has almost forgotten how grim and blank-faced the Winter Soldier had looked when they first met, and seeing him supplant the animated, smiling countenance of Clint’s Soldier so abruptly feels like a punch to the gut.

The Soldier roughly tears free of Clint’s embrace and walks toward the fireplace.  He puts on his tac vest and his gloves, using his teeth to pull the glove onto his working hand.  

“Wait.”  Clint stands in front of the Soldier but it’s like the Soldier doesn’t even see him, reaching right past Clint to grab his boots and shove his feet into them.

“I thought we had more time,” Clint finds himself saying, as if pleading with the universe is going to change anything.  “Wait — Soldier, please — don’t go.”  

The Soldier doesn’t pause for even a moment, pulling the laces on his boots tight.  He’s unable to tie them with just one hand and he stares down at them for a moment before tucking the loose ends of the shoelaces under the tongues.  “Just — you don’t have to go,” Clint begs.  “You can’t go back to —”

The Soldier shoves past Clint, checking him hard with his metal shoulder so that Clint stumbles back, barely catching his balance before he falls.

Clint takes a few running steps until he’s standing between the Soldier and the door.  The Soldier walks right into him — right through him, the solid weight of him pushing Clint aside like he’s barely there.

“Wait!”  Clint grabs the Soldier’s arm and the Soldier wheels, eyes narrowing murderously.

“Shit.”  Clint lets go of the Soldier’s arm and holds both hands up.  “I’m not — Soldier, I would never hurt you.  I just want —”

As fast as he can he slides around the Soldier, setting his back to the door.  He feels like his heart is breaking.  He doesn’t want the Soldier to hurt him, but he can’t let him go.  He just can’t.

The Soldier pauses, and Clint’s heart leaps for just a moment, thinking maybe he’s gotten through to him.  Then the Soldier reaches toward the small of his back and raises his arm, and Clint’s a fucking moron.  

He’d forgotten all about the gun.  If anything he thought it had been left behind on the plane.  But the Winter Soldier had a miniature soldering iron and now the biometric trigger lock is gone, the gun fully operational.

“Move,” the Soldier growls.

Clint could maybe defend himself against the Soldier’s knife with the Soldier one arm down, but there’s nothing he can do against the firearm at point-blank range.  

There’s nothing behind the Soldier’s eyes.  He’s aiming for the head, and looking at Clint without a hint of recognition.  His eyes are blank and pitiless, as if Clint were just a bothersome obstacle in his path.

He’s going to walk out that door, and go back to the people who tortured him.

Clint refuses to believe it, refuses to accept it.  It feels like the moment before he releases the arrow, everything pulled tight and sharp.  He’s only got a split second to make the decision.

Take every shot, he thinks frantically, and so he takes the only shot he has.

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.  32557038,” he blurts out.

The Soldier blinks.  His finger tightens on the trigger and Clint shifts his weight, ready to try to take the bullet somewhere nonlethal if he can.  

“That’s your name,” he babbles desperately.  “You’re Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.  They don’t want you to remember, but you have to.  You have to.”

There’s a thud and Clint flinches instinctively, but it’s the sound of the gun hitting the floor.  The Soldier’s whole face has gone grey, his eyes suddenly looking lost, bewildered, his arm hanging slackly at his side.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Clint repeats, his voice shaking.  “Please.  Please remember.”

The Soldier’s brows draw together, his lips moving soundlessly, and then he’s arching backwards, falling.  

Clint lunges forward, managing to grab one wrist and the edge of his tac vest, slowing the Soldier’s momentum so he at least doesn’t hit his head as he slumps to the floor, back bowing as his eyes roll back until only the whites are showing under half-closed lids.

“Shit, shit, goddammit,” Clint mutters as he tries to steady the Soldier.  The Soldier’s muscles convulse from his neck to his legs, a grating, groaning sound rattling from his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says.  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what else to do.  Please be okay.”

It seems like it lasts forever, although it’s probably only a few minutes.  

Clint tries to protect the Soldier as best as he can, cupping the back of his head to keep it from banging against the floorboards and urging the Soldier to breathe through the contractions that are seizing his chest.  The Soldier is only able to pull in raspy, shuddering breaths a few times, and every one sounds agonizing.  It feels like an eternity before the jerking movements slow down.  Finally, the Soldier draws breath in a deep sigh as his body seems to relax.

Some of the greyness fades from his face as the Soldier’s breathing starts to steady, his limbs trembling.

“I’ve got you,” Clint mumbles, propping the Soldier up as best as he can, clasping him to his chest.  “Jesus fuck, I’m so sorry.”

It’s another few moments before the Soldier manages to open his eyes, and even more time before awareness creeps in behind his dazed expression.

“Cuh —” he mumbles.  “Clint.”

“Yeah,” Clint chokes out, rubbing over the Soldier’s back and arms, trying his best to reassure.  “I’m here.”

The Soldier buries his face in the lee of Clint’s neck and shoulder, just breathing for a while.  He mumbles something that Clint can’t make out.

“Sorry, I didn’t —” Clint starts, pushing the hair tenderly back from the Soldier’s face, watching his lips to help make out the words.

“James,” the Soldier slurs.  “James Buch’nan Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, breath hitching.  “You remember?”

“They called me Bucky,” the Soldier says, his brow furrowing and then relaxing.  “Bucky Barnes.”

“Okay.”  Clint pulls the Soldier even closer.  “Bucky.”  It sounds vaguely familiar, but Clint can’t be bothered to try to place it.

“Was it enough?” he finally asks, scared to know the answer but unable to wait any longer.  “To override the core directive?”

“Think so,” the Soldier — Bucky — says, the words coming clearer now.  “I —” he smiles weakly.  “I don’t feel like goin’ anywhere right now.”

Clint tilts his head back and just breathes deep for a moment, trying to calm his pounding heart, before mustering up a smile.  “How about as far as the bed?”

Chapter Text

The Soldier is still dozing when Clint hears the vehicles approaching.

“Shit,” he says.  “Sol — Bucky — wake up.  Someone’s coming.”

Bucky is on his feet in moments.  “ATVs,” he says.  “Two of ‘em.”  It’s unequivocally Bucky still, and Clint can’t help a little sigh of relief.  He hands Bucky back his firearm and pulls his own knife.

“I don’t think they’d be comin’ to retrieve me yet,” Bucky says as they both take up positions by the door.  “An’ if they suspected I broke my programming they’d be sending more’n two ATVs.”

Clint nods.  Whoever is coming is not making much effort to be stealthy, and that makes him hope —

The sound of the engines dies off and a two-toned whistle rings out into the sudden silence.

Clint grins.  “It’s my team.” 

Bucky nods.  He hesitates only a second before clicking the safety back on the gun, unloading the magazine and checking the chamber before handing it to Clint muzzle-down and slide-lock open.  

Clint stows the weapon and magazine.  “Here,” he says, guiding Bucky up against the wall directly opposite the front door before standing in front of him.

He whistles back his response, but it’s still another few minutes before the door swings open, and another thirty seconds before Coulson ducks his head in and back out.

“Stand down,” Clint says clearly.  “He’s with me.”  He’s big enough to fully cover Bucky with his body, and he presses back to urge him to stillness as Coulson enters, gun still drawn.

Clint can see Coulson’s rapid assessment of his condition and the relief that comes over his usually bland expression before Coulson turns his attention to the man Clint is shielding.

“Who’s your friend, Hawkeye?” he says casually, lowering his weapon but keeping his finger next to the trigger.

“The Winter Soldier,” Nat says, materializing in the kitchen.  Bucky jolts but stays still, tension in every muscle, as Nat circles around to join Coulson.

“He’s with me,” Clint repeats.  “And his name is Bucky Barnes.”

“Bucky Barnes!?” For some reason that seems to rattle Coulson.  “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes?” he asks incredulously.

Clint steps aside a little, just enough to let Bucky have a view of his team and to let the team see him.  “How’d you know that?” he asks Coulson.

Coulson’s eyes widen.  “It is you,” he breathes.  He holsters his weapon, eyes locked on Bucky as if he’s forgotten Clint even exists.  “Sir, it’s — it’s an honor.”  Jeez, you’d think from the way he’s acting that he’s meeting his idol Captain America —

“Oh, shit,” Clint says, finally placing the name and feeling like an idiot ten times over.  “Bucky Barnes.”

“Only you, Clint,” Nat says, shaking her head.  She approaches cautiously, giving Bucky a wide berth, but when she’s close enough she gathers Clint into a spine-cracking hug.

“Aw, you were worried,” Clint says happily, lifting her up and then dropping her down again.

Coulson is sitting on the edge of the bed now, still looking a little flustered.  “How did this happen?” he asks weakly.

“It’s a long story.”  Clint looks at Bucky.  He seems wary, but nods.  “Let’s get home and we’ll tell it.”

Nat tilts her head.  “He’s coming with us?”

Coulson opens his mouth but Clint shoots him a glance that has him snapping it shut again.  Nothing is going to happen that isn’t Bucky’s choice.

“What d’you think?” he asks Bucky.  Bucky still looks jumpy, and Clint carefully puts a palm on Bucky’s cheek so that he’s looking at Clint and no one else.  “After all, I owe you a brisket.”

Bucky’s eyes search Clint’s face for a long moment but he seems to ease a bit at what he finds.  Clint leans in slowly enough that Bucky can dodge it if he wants, but Bucky tilts his head up to meet him instead.  They kiss soft and slow and tender, ignoring Nat’s wolf whistle, until most of the tension has melted from Bucky’s stance.  

“You’ll be there?” Bucky asks, and Clint can’t help kissing him again.

“Every step of the way,” he promises.