Not Going Down Without a Fight

All is quiet when his eyes snap open, and he wonders what has caused him to wake so suddenly. The navy sheets beneath him are unfamiliar, as is the heavy weight across his back. It takes less than three seconds for Bucky to remember where he is: Clint’s apartment. Clint’s bed. He smiles into the pillow below his head, warmth blooming in his chest at the thought of how he’s spent his morning. He shifts slightly, but Clint stays blissfully asleep, his snoring soft and steady. When he’s sure Clint won’t wake, he squirms and wiggles, rather gracelessly, until he’s on his back with the archer’s face buried against Bucky’s stomach, his arm draped over Bucky’s hips. He smiles softly at the sight of Clint so peaceful. Then his gaze is dragged away from Clint, to the door.

Natasha grins at him, completely unfazed at having been caught watching the two men sleep. She leans against the doorframe, her lips still quirked upwards at the corners. There’s something in her eye that puts Bucky on edge. He goes to sit up, but she speaks, effectively stilling him.

“Move slowly, or you’ll startle him wake, and he’d feel terrible if he tries to hurt you in his panic.”

He sends her a flat look but does as she says. He tries to tell himself it’s what he would have done regardless; his internal monologue rings false, even to himself. Bucky manages to get out from beneath Clint’s dead-weight, pausing at the side of the bed once he’s on his feet, and watches the sleeping man for any signs that he might wake up. Clint snores on, moves only to pull the pillow to his chest – and Bucky’s brain stops working momentarily when he realises Clint is somehow wearing only his Iron Man boxers again; the turtle pyjamas are lying in a pile on the floor at the end of the bed. Bucky swallows, throat suddenly dry, before pulling the comforter over Clint, then, disregarding the fact that Natasha is still watching, he presses his lips to Clint’s warm temple, inhaling the scent of pure Clint. When he faces the doorway, Natasha is gone; he makes his way to the bathroom. The Captain America toothbrush he used last night sits in a cup, next to Clint’s purple one. Something beneath Bucky’s ribs clenches at the sight, but he doesn’t spare a thought to it, too afraid of what he might find if he explores that particular path; instead, he uses the toilet, washes his hands and face, and brushes his teeth. He hesitates but puts his toothbrush back where it was. His reflection in the mirror startles him. His eyes are no longer stormy and dark with memories but bright, alert, and the purple semi-circles above his cheeks are considerably lighter. He needs a haircut, though – the long strands are to his shoulders, much too long for his liking. Maybe Clint can cut his hair for him… His gaze catches on the cup of brushes, and he nearly stumbles backward at the sight, the brilliance, of his own smile in the glass.

Forcing his face into something less…happy (because that’s what he is – happy, and all because of that brat, Barton), he flips the light switch and pads quietly to the kitchen. His footsteps are silent on the soft carpet, and Natasha gives no indication that she’s heard him. Her eyes stay focused on the small container of yoghurt in her hand as she brings the spoon to her mouth. Bucky sits in the chair across from her, staring at his hands. Finally, he draws in a breath and meets her gaze.

“Why are you here?”

It isn’t what he meant to say, but he can’t take back the words once they’re out in the air. Natasha blinks slowly, swipes a speck of yoghurt from her bottom lip with her tongue.

“I’m used to random, meaningless text and picture messages every five minutes starting around ten a.m. Guess how many I’ve received today.” She laughs softly when he doesn’t respond. “I had to check and make sure he hasn’t done anything stupid, like getting himself killed by monsters or his cooking.”

“Or by the Winter Soldier?”

Her green eyes flash with something unidentifiable as she dips her chin once, as if conceding his point. “I’ll admit that thought crossed my mind. Then I remembered you’re not the Winter Soldier any more. You’re…”

“Reformed.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she chuckles, finishing her yoghurt. “I’m glad you two found each other. But… I’ve gotta say this: Please do not hurt him. He’s a walking tragedy, and he’s got all the stability of a derailed train on a collapsing bridge, but he’s, well, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and he’s been through enough. He’s lost enough, has had to say goodbye to people he loves too many times already. He doesn’t deserve any more pain. So, please, Barnes, I am begging; for once in my life, I’m pleading for a reason other than a lie I tell for a mission…” She reaches out, grasping his flesh hand between hers. “Don’t hurt Clint.”

“I-I won’t. I’ll try not to, anyway.”

The smile she gives him is tremulous but full of silent thanks. She must read his unasked question on his face, for she pats the back of his hand gently.

“I can’t tell you. I wouldn’t, even if I could. They’re his demons, not mine. If you really, truly want to know, ask him yourself but only if you’re certain you’re going to stick around.”

Bucky nods, and Natasha releases his hand, seemingly appeased. He feels like he’s been punched in the face unexpectedly, wrong-footed by the seriousness and genuine concern on her face. He knew she and Clint were close, closer than even Steve and Tony (though, obviously, in different ways), but he’s used to her being cool to the point of cold, aloof, her cards held close to her chest, so the open display of emotions is startling. But now she’s back to her usual enigmatic, unreadable self, so he doesn’t say anything about it. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the microwave and raises an eyebrow. He’s slept almost five and a half hours, with no resurfacing memories plaguing that rest. Natasha cocks her head at his expression; he shrugs it off. He doesn’t want to speak of it. There’s too much in his head, and he’s scared that pulling on that thread could unravel far too much.

“Wanna stay for dinner?”

Natasha’s eyes narrow infinitesimally. “Not going to try to poison me, are you?”

“No. Clint’s gonna be eatin’ it, too.”

“And poisoning your boyfriend would be a bad idea.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yet.” She stands in a graceful move, drops her empty yoghurt container into the trash, and turns to lean against the counter. “But yes, I’d love to stay for dinner, as long as you can cook.”

“Of course I can. What else did I have to do while Steve was off saving the world and falling in love with Stark?”

“Someone’s got to go to the store, because a mouldy hunk of mozzarella is not a viable meal choice.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

He stands behind her, looking over her shoulder, but she’s telling the truth. The only food item in the refrigerator is a block of cheese that is no longer white but black, green, and fuzzy. Besides the cheese, the fridge holds nothing except bottles of beer, a half-empty carton of orange juice, and flavoured coffee creamer. He blanches and moves to shut the door.

“I’m going to assume you still don’t want to be in public.”

“Not really.”

Natasha hums in understanding and disappears into the living room. When she returns there is a pen in one hand and a notepad in the other. Bucky takes them from her and writes down everything he will need to make dinner; she folds the list, slides it into her pocket, and slips out of the apartment. The only indications that she’s left are the soft – nearly inaudible – snick of the door as it closes and a feeling of relief. The note she’d left in his book may have been a symbol of her forgiveness, but he still feels like he has to watch what he says or does so that they’re not rivals once more.

Natasha returns an hour later, three bags hanging from her wrists. Bucky helps unload the groceries before pulling out a cast-iron skillet, which is actually surprising considering he’s in Clint’s kitchen. Natasha hands him a knife and a cutting board. They work in silence, mincing garlic and dicing chicken; as he melts butter in the skillet and adds the garlic, she brings a pot of water to boiling, drops in the fettucine pasta, and grabs out another pan to cook the chicken. Their movements as they cook are smooth, graceful; Bucky tries not to dwell on the fact that it’s easy working with her. The alfredo sauce has just started thickening when Clint shuffles into the kitchen. Bucky watches from the corner of his eye as Clint ambles slowly to the coffeemaker. The sound of the machine running joins in with the gentle noises of Natasha setting the table, the hiss of the burners, and the hum of the refrigerator. Clint stays facing the coffeemaker until it’s gurgled out its last drop, then pours some into a mug and turns to the fridge. He stops, frozen mid-step, as his eyes finally see what’s happening in his kitchen. Bucky doesn’t speak even as he holds a spoon to Natasha’s mouth so she can taste the sauce. He can feel the back of his neck burning under Clint’s scrutiny. Thankfully, it’s Natasha who breaks the silence.

“It’s delicious, Barnes.”

Clint blinks then, making his way to the table and sitting in a chair. Bucky turns away, shuts off the stovetop, and carries the food to the table, placing the skillet on the thick hand-towel in the centre. No one says anything as they fill their plates, but the quiet is comfortable, unforced. Clint moans, a deep sound from low in his throat, when he takes the first bite. Bucky avoids Natasha’ gaze; if she sees his flushed cheeks, she doesn’t remark on it.

I’m glad I didn’t kill you.

The thought is unexpected, shocking Bucky, and he’s thankful to have not said it out loud. True though it may be, he knows without a doubt that it would have destroyed the peaceful camaraderie that’s surrounding them. Natasha carries their plates to the sink, rinsing them off quickly, and returns to the table with three beers. Clint presses a soft kiss to the back of her wrist as she passes him a bottle; Bucky opts for a less touchy-feely approach and murmurs a quiet “thank you.”

“What brings you by, Nat? Smell Buck’s cooking and come running?” Clint asks once he’s taken a sip.

“No, that’s you, idiot. I came by to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Aw, Bucky won’t kill me.”

“I never thought he was the risk.”

“Then –? Oh, come on! That was one fucking time! I didn’t mean to blow up my kitchen, and I promised not to do it again. Why are you still holding that against me?”

“Because you’re a tragedy on two feet.”

Bucky chimes in with “An absolute menace. An accident waiting to happen. It’s terrible.”

Clint glares at them, narrowed eyes flitting between Bucky and Natasha and back again, before he flicks his bottle-cap at her head. She dodges the projectile easily, laughing; even Bucky has to smile at Clint’s antics, though he hides it by taking another sip of his beer. Natasha waits until the men have finished their drinks, then stands and moves toward the front door. Clint follows.

“You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah. Fury needs me to come in early for some reason.” She doesn’t quite meet her friend’s eye as she speaks. “I’ll be by soon.”

Clint accepts her words without question, pulls her in for a tight hug. Over his shoulder, she catches Bucky’s attention and mouths please. Bucky nods succinctly; she extracts herself from Clint’s grasp, flashes them a small smile, and disappears. There’s no sound beyond the door, and Bucky has to appreciate her skill. His thoughts derail when Clint sidles up to him, wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, and lets his mouth leave a gentle kiss to Bucky’s chest. Bucky ducks his head to capture Clint’s mouth with his own. Clint presses closer, lips parting; a low moan rumbles from his chest, and Bucky damn near loses control at the sound. But Clint deserves better than a quick roll between the sheets right at the beginning of whatever they’ve got. So Bucky forces himself to slow down, reign in his desires. Clint’s lower lip juts out in a pout when Bucky pulls away.</p>

“I was enjoying that, Barnes.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, so was I,” rasps Bucky, “a bit too much.”

He can see the moment Clint catches onto his meaning. “I wouldn’t object.” Then there’s an edge of something in his eyes, and he goes to step back. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I get it. Really, I do. Completely understand.”

“I’m glad one of us does, ‘cause, Barton… What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I know there’s no reason for you to. I mean, after all, I’m no competition for, well, anyone, so I get it.”

Bucky struggles to not react until he is certain he understands what Clint’s babbling about. He replays the conversation over in his head, trying to figure out where everything went wrong.

“Barton, you’re a goddamn idiot.”

Clint stops speaking instantly, his arms falling to his side; his expression sharpens, turns hard. “Gee, thanks, Barnes.”

“No, no, babe, you’ve got me wrong.” He tightens his arms around Clint’s waist, holding him close. “I want it. I want… I want you. Just not right now. I mean, I don’t want to start this…what ‘this’ is and wonder if it’s based purely on sex. I want you; don’t ever doubt me on that. I just want to wait.”

Clint ceases struggling and lets his face rest against Bucky’s shoulder. There’s nothing but silence in the room. Bucky bites his lower lip, hesitating before continuing his prepared speech.

“Of course there’s no competition between you and anyone else, because no else is you. You’re a train-wreck, but I don’t care. You understand. You actually get me out of my head. I want to get to know you more, and I want to be with you. I just want us to have more of a sturdy base, ya know? So please, stop being an idiot and trust me. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

Clint breathes out a shaky breath but nods. Bucky can’t help but wondering what exactly has made Clint’s self-esteem so fucked that he automatically equates temporary refusal to outright permanent rejection. Instead of voicing his questions, he leads Clint to the couch and manhandles their bodies so that they’re stretched out, legs tangled together; Clint is on his side, nestled between Bucky and the back of the couch, his head on Bucky’s shoulder. He motions for the remote, which Bucky hands over silently. The television flickers on, and he does a double-take at the person on the screen.

“Isn’t that that Maria Hill chick? From SHIELD?”

“That’s what I said!” Clint crows, smacking a hand down onto Bucky’s chest. “But don’t say anything to her about it. She’s already threatened to strangle me with my bow if I bring it up again.”

Bucky chuckles softly and kisses Clint’s forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Clint beams at that and shifts closer. Bucky lets his metal fingers card through Clint’s hair, earning him a sound from the other man almost like purring. They watch the show with the Maria Hill-doppelganger in silence; it isn’t until Clint starts snoring against his chest that Bucky realises how late it’s gotten. He turns off the television, eases out from under Clint, and gazes down at the sleeping form on the couch. With a few second’s hesitation, he says “Fuck it” before stooping down and scooping Clint up into his arms. He cradles the man to his chest and carries him to the bedroom, deposits him gently on the bed. Clint flails the second Bucky moves away; his blue eyes snap open, and he looks frightened.

“Don’t, Buck, please, don’t…”

“Hey, hey, I’m not leaving, I promise. Gonna turn off the lights in the kitchen, then I’ll be back.”

Clint nods slowly, relaxing against the pillows, and Bucky makes quick work of his bedtime routine. A soft sigh sounds from his right as he slips between the sheets, and he feels Clint’s hand on his wrist. He smiles into the darkness, rolls onto his side, and pulls Clint closer. He barely has a chance to press his lips to Clint’s hair before he falls asleep, no struggling as he slips from consciousness.