Not Going Down Without a Fight

Sudden pain blooms in the side of his face, and Bucky jerks to awareness in time to dodge another swing of Clint’s fist. His movements cause him to topple over the edge of the bed, but he merely rolls to his feet and backs away slowly, out of reach. Clint’s face is hard, blank, as he slides off the mattress, drops to the floor, and stands, holding a bow. An arrow is already nocked, aimed straight at Bucky’s chest. Bucky can’t breathe; he holds his hands up as a sign of surrender, of meaning no harm.

“Clint. It’s me. It’s me. Bucky. Put down the bow, sweetheart. C’mon, you can do it. Just put it down.”

“Don’t.”

Bucky stops moving as soon as the word leaves Clint’s mouth, a hiss through clenched teeth. “It’s me, darlin’. You’re safe. You’re in your apartment with me. There’s no danger here.”

“You’re the danger.”

“No, baby, I’m not. I’m me. I’m Bucky. I’m… I’m your boyfriend. I’m not a danger.”

Clint freezes, finger twitching on the string of his bow. Before Bucky can blink, Clint releases the arrow. A soft thud meets Bucky’s ear, and he turns his head minutely to see the back half of the arrow protruding from the wall. He swallows but looks back at Clint. His heart breaks at the expression on Clint’s face. He doesn’t move toward Clint, though. Not until Clint collapses on the floor, shoulders shaking violently as sobs tear from his lungs. He struggles against Bucky’s arms, but Bucky only holds tighter. Finally, the fight leaves Clint, and he lets Bucky wrap his arms more securely around him. Bucky trembles as he presses his cheek to Clint’s hair. He can taste the bitter fear still pulsing through him; there’s a reason Clint is called the best archer, in that he never misses his target. But the panic of being face with death is second to an overwhelming concern for Clint’s well-being. His eyes burn with his own tears; seeing Clint like this is physically painful. He doesn’t say anything, just clings to Clint as much as Clint is clinging to him. When Clint finally quiets down, Bucky can breathe easier. Then…

Clint shoves him away with a loud, indignant yell. Bucky barely manages to catch himself from sprawling backwards.

“What the fuck?”

“You fucking – What the Hell were you thinking?”

“Clint –”

“No! I could’ve killed you!” Clint’s face is wet with tears, twisted and red in anger; he grasps at his hair, clenching at the strands. “You shouldn’t have just stood there like a dumb ass, Barnes. You should have gotten the fuck out before I grabbed the bow, especially when I had it pointed at you. And – oh, my God, you’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?”

Bucky swipes his hand over his mouth, and, sure enough, his fingers are smeared with blood. “Don’t worry about me, Clint. I’ll be fine. I’m worried about you.”

“Why didn’t you leave? I could’ve killed you.”

“Because you were there for me.”

Clint closes his eyes but stays motionless. His breathing is still ragged; panic is clear on his face, but Bucky remains where he is. He’s never been with Clint after his nightmares, so he’s unsure of what Clint needs. When the archer has been immobile for more than five minutes, chest heaving with uneven inhales and even shakier exhales, Bucky clambers off the floor, his hand reaching for Clint’s phone. Natasha answers before the first ring completes.

“Hey, it’s…It’s Barnes. Clint’s, well, he’s not in good shape. It’s like he’s frozen or something. He won’t move, hasn’t for almost ten minutes. What the fuck do I do?”

“Bow or trying to jump out the window?”

“Bow.”

“Good. That’s good.”

"Good? He almost shot me, Natasha,” Bucky hisses as he watches Clint.

“I meant, it’s good that he wasn’t trying to jump out the window. Bow means he’s open to be touched, held. Basically, you can bring him down more easily.”

“And the other one?”

“If it happens, call me immediately and keep an eye on him without touching him. Unless he actually jumps, stay back.”

“Thanks.”

“Barnes? Take care of him.”

“I’m trying.”

Bucky hangs up and drops the phone onto the table. He walks slowly across the room. When his fingers brush against the skin of Clint’s shoulder, Clint flinches; Bucky hesitates then tries again. This time, Clint blinks a few times before turning to Bucky.

“Come here, sweetheart.” Clint allows himself to be pulled into Bucky’s chest. “I’m all right. Don’t worry ‘bout me. Are you okay?”

Clint sniffs, buries his face into Bucky’s neck; his fist clench around a wad of T-shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. I promise. You wanna try for more sleep?”

Clint shakes his head, and Bucky understands that. He watches as Clint pulls away and walks to the closet. By the time Bucky moves, Clint is making his way into the bathroom, arms full of clothes. Bucky sits on the bed, reaches for his phone, while the sound of the shower starts echoing through the otherwise quiet apartment. He slides his finger across the screen; the message thread with Steve is still open, but there are two new messages: You okay, Buck? and a thumbnail of a picture. Bucky taps on it, and a smile splits his face. In the picture, he and Clint are clearly still asleep, Bucky on his stomach with his face half-hidden by the pillow and Clint sprawled across his back. He saves the image to his phone’s gallery before typing out a response.

I’m fine. Been busy sleeping, as you
can see. Should’ve known Widow
would have some sort of photographic
evidence of us cuddling

There’s no response, but Bucky hasn’t anticipated one, not at four in the morning. He bites down on his bottom lip and taps on a name in his contact list, hoping that the person he needs is awake. He’s pulling on his boots by the time Clint emerges from the bathroom. A T-shirt is flung over his shoulder as he drags a towel through his wet hair. Bucky knows he’s staring, but keeping his eyes off of Clint is difficult. It’s ridiculous, really, how hypnotising it is to watch the way his muscles ripple smoothly beneath his damp skin and to see the expanse of bare flesh disappearing into the top of dark, tight denim. Bucky finally manages to drag his gaze away from a half-naked Clint; he can feel his cheeks warming but hopes the other man hasn’t noticed.

“What are you doing? Are you leaving?”

Bucky shakes his head and stands up, crossing the room in three long strides. “No. We are leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Now finish getting dressed.”

His fingers tingle as he helps Clint pull his shirt on; there’s no way that Clint can ignore the way Bucky’s breath hitches, hands tremble just slightly as they skim along his side. He glances up at Bucky through his lashes, cheeks pink, and Bucky gives into the inappropriate, overwhelming desire to kiss the Hell out of Clint. The kiss is hot, hard, needy, and Clint gives as much as he takes. Bucky gasps into Clint’s mouth when their bodies connect; he presses Clint against the wall, aching for more contact, more pleasure…just more. When they separate, they are both breathless, and Bucky is certain that his cheeks are as flushed as Clint’s. Clint has his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, his thighs pressed to the sides of Bucky’s left leg. He whines, literally whines, when Bucky presses his hand to his hip, effectively stopping movement.

“We don’t have time right now. Sorry, sweetheart. C’mon.”

A car is waiting at the curb by the time they make it outside. Bucky holds the back door open, lets Clint slide in first, then nods to the driver once he’s situated beside Clint. The ride to their destination is quiet; no music plays from the speakers, and the three passengers are absorbed in their own thoughts. Bucky’s frustrated. Not the time to try to get your jollies, dumbass, he reprimands himself as buildings pass by beyond the window. The kiss was amazing but largely inappropriate right after Clint tried to kill him not even an hour before. He makes a mental note to talk to Clint about it later. Clint shoots him a questioning look as the car pulls into the parking garage. Bucky shakes his head and waits for the car to be stopped before sliding out into the humid air of the underground structure. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and motor oil permeates the air, and he can hear the lights buzzing overhead. The guard in the booth stifles a yawn, motioning them forward.

“You Barnes? Okay. Take these, go in those elevators. Take the lift to level seventy-five.”

“You don’t need to see our IDs?” asks Clint, sounding rather incredulous.

“Nah. Got a picture of him right here, so I knew who he was.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, plucks the keycard and visitor badges from the guard’s hands.

Clint presses the button for the specified floor, but nothing happens. Bucky chuckles quietly and sticks the card into a thin slot in the control panel. At his nod, Clint jabs a finger against the button once again; the elevator judders to life and jerks as it begins its ascent. Two figures wait in the foyer when they step off the lift. Tony waves cheerily, though his eyes are too bright, and Bucky sighs. Steve doesn’t look upset at the fact that his boyfriend is drunk, which leaves Bucky thinking that Steve’s used to Tony always being drunk (this conjecture frustrates him, because Steve deserves better than that) or Steve is too fucked-out to care about Tony being drunk. A disgusted shiver ripples down his spine at the thought of Steve and Tony fucking.

“Hey, Legolas. Made you something. Follow me.”

Clint gives Bucky a look that clearly says Help Me!, but Bucky ignores it, shoving him gently to follow after Stark. There’s an expression of fond thoughtfulness on Steve’s face when Bucky turns to him, and Bucky fights the impulse to hide away from the scrutiny. Instead, he takes a deep breath, releases it slowly.

“What are you doing up, punk?”

“Tony woke me up, told me you called, said you said something about Clint having a rough night and that you were bringing him here.”

"Yeah. Figured him being here, with people he’s fought monsters and villains with, people who are his friends, would help. It helps me anyway. To be around friends, I mean, even if it’s just you and Barton.”

Steve smiles softly. “It was a good idea, Buck. Are you two…dating?”

“I told you, Barton’s a brat.” Bucky pauses. “But no, not yet, I don’t think.”

“You don’t think? How do ya figure?”

Bucky closes his eyes as he answers Steve, “We haven’t really talked about it, but…I kinda called myself his boyfriend when I was trying to get him out of his nightmare-induced panic.”

“And it worked.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

"Bucky.  Look at me.” Steve sits forward in the chair, hands folded together. “Clint… He’s been through a lot, which is why I told you to go to him instead of Nat or Bruce or even Sam. Sure, they have their own histories, but Clint’s is more similar to yours. Not the same, but similar.”

“Oh, so you weren’t trying to play Miss Matchmaker?”

“Not intentionally, but apparently, it’s working,” Steve laughs.

The pair falls silent for a moment, then Steve stands and beckons Bucky to follow. The elevator they step into is on the opposite end of the lobby, and the movement is smoother. On the other side of the doors is a large, open living room. A staircase is directly to the right, while a few couches are arranged into a three-sided square facing a large, thin television mounted to the wall. The room is dim, barely lit, but as soon as Bucky’s foot hits the wooden floor beyond the elevator, strategically-placed lamps and hanging lights turn on, illuminating the area. He allows Steve to guide him down four steps and through a wide arch. The kitchen they enter is spotless, with top-of-the-line equipment, sleek lines, and modern decorating. It’s also completely devoid of any other person.

Steve pulls a carton of orange juice from the fridge and two glasses from a cupboard, gesturing for Bucky to sit on a stool at the island. “I wasn’t trying to play matchmaker. Really, I wasn’t. But… You and Clint are good for each other.”

“Natasha said close to the same thing.”

“Then I know I’m right.” Steve sighs and leans against the counter; his eyes are tight, dark with thought, as he stares at the wall. “God, I used to tell you everything.”

“Yeah, you did. When did you start keeping things from me, you big jerk?”

“When they weren’t my secrets to tell. Buck, what happened to your face?”

Bucky raises his flesh hand to his cheek, presses gently at the tender area where Clint’s fist first hit. He knows his lip is swollen, scabbing over; there’s still the taste of blood in his mouth. He shrugs.

“It’s nothing, Stevie.”

“Did… Did Clint hit you?”

Bucky groans, waves a hand in Steve’s direction. “Please don’t say anything to him. He feels bad enough about it. Besides, at least I have a reason for my face lookin’ like shit. What’s your excuse?”

Steve laughs, a choking sound, and Bucky laughs along with him. It’s nice, being with Steve like this. They’ve hung out multiple times since Steve moved out, but it’s not been the same. Bucky misses the nights when they would stay up late, with his feet in Steve’s lap while he drew and Bucky read whatever book the librarian recommended; or going to the movie theatre to watch whatever comedies were out. They made Sunday brunches a new tradition, and it’s helped, but Bucky has always hated change. Sure, he can roll with life’s punches, but he’s never enjoyed any upheaval in what he knows.

“C’mon, you need a shower. You can use mine.”

The penthouse is different than what Bucky’s imagined it would be. Instead of chrome and flashy décor, the space is decorated with muted colours, comforting shades of greys and pale greens. A living room similar to the one on the previous floor, but with only one couch and an armchair, is off to the left; there is a bar along one wall, between a door and a circular staircase. Steve leads Bucky through the door, into what’s very obviously the bedroom. The bed is large, the deep-red sheets rumpled. The walls are bare, surprising him. He would have figured that Stark would have a mirror on the wall opposite the bed just to be able to always stare at himself. Bucky nods once when Steve opens one of the three doors then walks away.

Bucky makes quick work of his shower. There’s a pair of sweats and a T-shirt on the counter between the his-and-well…his sinks by the time he steps out of the shower stall. When he opens the bathroom door, steam billowing behind him, it’s to see his best friend sprawled across the bed, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. His snores are quiet. Bucky finds himself listening intently for any rattling of his breath, any wheezing from his lungs. Then he remembers the serum that’s in every one of Steve’s cells, the serum that has changed so much. He pads quietly to stand beside the greatest friend he’s ever known, hesitates for the span of one heartbeat, then pulls the blanket up and over Steve’s sleeping form. The tower is too quiet as Bucky makes his way to what Steve called the ‘communal level’; even the elevator is nearly silent. He sits on one of the couches, staring around the spacious area.

“May I be of assistance, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky doesn’t jump in his seat at the cool voice, but that’s only due to decades of training. He does, however, tense and sweep his gaze over the shadows. No one has encroached on his solitude.

“I apologise if I startled you, Sergeant. It was not my intention.”

Wha–?

“I am JARVIS, Mister Stark’s automated system that runs the tower and assists him in nearly every capacity. I can assure you that I am harmless.”

“That’s good. Uh, how did you know I was here?”

“I am programmed to scan every area of the tower and detect any security breaches and threats. Mister Stark alerted me that you and Agent Barton would be visiting the tower and asked that I assist you if the need arose. Would you like me to direct you to the range where Agent Barton and Mister Stark currently are?”

“Um, sure, thanks.”

Bucky steps onto the elevator once more as directed by the disembodied voice. Within the minute, the doors slide open, and his jaw drops at what’s beyond: A long row of lanes, separated by tall panes of thick glass, extend from one end of the floor to the other. He sees Clint and Stark halfway across the room; Clint is gesturing wildly as he speaks while Stark is dodging the bow in the archer’s hand as it comes incredibly to his face. Shockingly, he has an unworried expression on his face as he listens. Bucky makes his way to stand beside the pair, ducking so his nose doesn’t get broken by Clint’s weapon of choice.

“Hey, Buck. Whoa, whose clothes?”

Stark glances over Bucky’s shoulder. “Where’s the other icicle?”

“He, uh, fell asleep while I was taking a shower,” replies Bucky, ignoring (for the time being) the tactless nickname, and Stark’s dark eyebrows furrow slightly; his mouth opens as if to say something. Bucky hopes it’s nothing that’s going to run the risk of him throwing a punch at the genius.

To his surprise, Stark merely nods at Clint, claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and starts walking toward the elevator. He calls back to them over his shoulder, telling them to stay as long as they want. Bucky raises an eyebrow in Clint’s direction when Stark smirks, a suspicious glint in his eye, and assures them that JARVIS will be more than willing to direct them to a guest room if they decide they need it. He winks right as the doors slide closed. Clint is studiously avoiding Bucky’s gaze, his cheeks and ears a bright pink.

“Barton, got somethin’ to tell me?”

“Okay, so I might have gotten too excited over the new stuff Tony made me, and anyone who knows me knows I tend to lose my filter when I’m excited, and I might have possibly let slip what we’d been doing before coming here. I know it’s none of his business, but I just kept rambling, and now he knows, and –”

Bucky shuts him up with a kiss; when he pulls away, Clint is smiling. “It’s fine. I’m just happy to see you feeling better.” He pauses, presses another kiss to the corner of Clint’s mouth. “Do you wanna take him up on the offer of the guest room?”

“Nah, you had a point about wanting this built on more than sex,” Clint responds after a moment of surprised thought.

“Show me what you got.”

Clint’s face lights up (and damn, but Bucky’s really beginning to love that face when it’s lit up with glee), and he pulls Bucky along the lanes until they reach the last three. He begins explaining that Stark has made the targets able to move, duck into the floor or rise toward the sky, never staying still once Clint presses a button. Then he pulls out two quivers of arrows and describes each of the functions: exploding (not new), delayed-exploding (not new), grappling (not new), tasing (new), and his new personal favourite – returning (as long as less than half of the shaft is embedded in whatever the target is). Bucky laughs softly at his enthusiasm, feeling his heart beating faster with the realisation that he would do absolutely anything to keep Clint smiling and laughing like that.

They make a quick stop at Bucky’s apartment on the way to Clint’s. Bucky leaves the other man in the living room and heads to his bedroom. Once he’s changed out of Steve’s too-large clothes, he swiftly gathers up a couple pairs of jeans, boxers, sweatpants, and T-shirts, shoving them into a duffel bag that may or may not be carrying a rather impressive collection of small knives and handguns. He debates over whether he should bring along the cigarettes he has hidden or leave them where they lie in the bedside drawer; a stray image of snow-capped mountains and a speeding train far above him dances across his mind, and he hurriedly stows the pack among his clothes, shivering at non-existent cold.

“You do realise the couple in 6B is –”

“Actually undercover SHIELD agents? Yeah, I know.” Bucky pulls the car door shut behind him and gives the cabbie the address to their destination. “I’m also aware that the homeless man out front is a licensed, fully-qualified agent as well.”

Clint stares at him, frowning. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really.” Bucky shrugs then sighs. “In a way, it does, because it keeps reminding me that people are just waiting for me to fuck up so they have an excuse to lock me away and do whatever they want with my arm. But it’s also kinda reassuring to know there’s always plenty of people willing and available to put me down when I fuck up, when my brain manages to convince me that I’m the Asset, the Winter Soldier, not Bucky Barnes.”

“If.”

“What?”

“If. If you fuck up. If your mind convinces you you’re not you.”

“Barton –”

“No. You’ve been Bucky Barnes, just Bucky Barnes, since we rescued your dumb ass from HYDRA. There’s been absolutely nothing to indicate that you’re gonna revert back. So as far as I’m concerned, it’s an ‘if’, not a ‘when.’”

Clint has such a mulish, determined look on his face, Bucky wants nothing more than to believe in his own goodness as steadfastly as Clint does. But Bucky has too many memories that prove otherwise. Steve’s tried to persuade him that nothing is his fault, he wasn’t in control, that HYDRA was to blame, but those arguments do nothing to convince him when they’re stacked against the screams of his victims. Since coming out of cryo, Bucky has remembered every single target, how their eyes widened in fear (if they saw him coming) or shock right before they crumbled, lifeless, to the floor. Too many times the Asset stood by and watched with hardened, emotionless eyes as people were systematically tortured. The sounds of bones breaking beneath HYDRA boots, shrieks of agony, pitiful begging for mercy (HYDRA does not show mercy to those who are of no use); the sight of blood pooling below dead bodies, crimson frothing at the mouths of those not yet released from their painful existence; the smell of human shit and piss, decomposition of corpses, and burning flesh as the fires roared… These are active inhabitants of Bucky’s nightmares, the memories he can’t stop from flooding into his brain, and all he wants is to forget, and why won’t they just fucking stop?

“Buck!”

A sharp sound of skin hitting skin, then a stinging sensation radiating from his cheek. Bucky blinks and realises he’s sitting on Clint’s couch. He has no recollection of how he got here. Clint is crouched in front of him, fear and panic evident on his face, though he tries to hide it. Bucky swallows the bile rising in his throat, but it keeps coming. He shoves Clint out of the way, runs to the bathroom, and manages to drop to his knees in front of the toilet before vomiting He pukes until nothing is left in his stomach, keeps on retching and gagging. A hand rubs his back gently, soothing, and he coughs, spitting the last bit of stomach acid from his mouth. Clint holds out a glass of water, and Bucky rinses his mouth out then takes a drink.

“You had a panic attack. I had to slap you to bring you out of it. Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“Feel better?”

Bucky nods and climbs shakily to his feet. Clint steps out of the way, following him back to the living room. They sit on the couch in silence for a few minutes before it’s too much; he pulls Clint to lie down with him, wraps his arms around the solid form that’s stretched out on top of him, and breathes in the comforting scent of Clint’s skin. The television flares to life, dousing the room in flickering light. Bucky feels a strong sense of gratitude and attachment for the man who’s quickly becoming his anchor to reality. He presses his lips to Clint’s hair and settles in to watch some kid named David get his ass kicked by another smaller one called DJ.

Unfortunately, the rerun marathon is cut short, five hours later, by an incessant beeping. Clint fishes his phone from his pocket, grimacing at the name on the screen. He doesn’t speak except to say “Got it.” He clambers off of Bucky and disappears into his bedroom. When he emerges, he’s wearing a pair of thick black pants, a sleeveless black vest, and straps on his arm. He’s silent as he grabs up the quiver of arrows at the end of the couch, stows it across his back, and flicks open his bow. Bucky knows where he’s going, has known since Clint answered the phone, but that fact only serves to cause a tighter squeezing in his chest. He gets to his feet fluidly and stands in front of Clint, who, surprisingly, is looking reluctant. He catches Bucky staring and gives a small, strained smile.

“I… Would you think less of me if I said I didn’t want to go? Strictly hypothetical, of course.”

“No, I wouldn’t, but you have to, so it doesn’t really matter what I think.”

Clint nods succinctly, as if Bucky’s words settle the matter, and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Right. Bad guys.”

“Just promise me one thing.” When Clint looks up, Bucky surges forward to leave a searing kiss on his lips. “Come back safe, you idiot.”

Clint’s gone within moments after that, his “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?” still echoing in Bucky’s ears. The television lends light and sound to the suddenly too-quiet apartment. Bucky flops down onto the couch and tries to ignore the coils of apprehension shaking through his gut, clenching around his heart.

He doesn’t sleep that night; being in Clint’s bed without Clint feels like one of his worse ideas. It leaves him feeling even more overwhelmingly alone. So he watches late-night 90s sitcoms, letting himself get lost in the fictional worlds where family matters and twelve-year-old boys kick the asses of their sister’s seventeen-year-old ex-boyfriends. The discomfort in his chest grows as time drags on, but he refuses to examine it. He knows that acknowledging the anxious worrying will only make the separation harder.

For two days, he stays awake, alert, waiting for any kind of update. The apartment is sparkling by the second night; he was restless and found Clint’s meagre collection of cleaning supplies. He repeats the process of watching sitcoms (this one about some kind of unconventional nanny with big hair and a penchant for tight, short skirts and cleavage-revealing blouses), pacing the living room when Miss Fine’s nasally voice starts to get annoying, and pushing away the worry that’s quickly escalating to panic. By the time the sun comes up over the city, he’s exhausted and looks like a crazy homeless person. His body yearns for sleep, aches for rest, but his brain supplies endless possibilities of what could (and probably has) gone wrong. He can’t work out who he’s more worried over: Steve and Clint. Bucky stops his circling of the living room, presses his forehead to the cool wall, and chokes back a laugh. At this point, he’s certain it will come out as maniacal, and he’s not willing to bed that he’ll be able to stop once he starts. Having someone else whose well-being is as much a concern as Steve’s is, is interesting, a novelty. His focus has always been on Steve, making sure the scrawny kid with a mile-long list of health issues has been okay, getting rid of tougher opponents without making Steve feel helpless… That’s been Bucky’s job for as long as he can remember (which, admittedly, isn’t much; most of his knowledge comes from history books and the Smithsonian). But now Clint’s there on the “Protect At All Cost” List, and isn’t it just grand that Bucky would start feeling this protective of another idiot who willingly puts himself in harm’s way?

Sixty-eight hours later after Clint’s departure finds Bucky sitting amongst a pile of clothes on the floor of the bedroom, mindlessly folding shirts into perfect squares and layering them in the dresser drawers, organised by colour. His mind is wandering to places previously unexplored – jealousy over how easily people flocked to Steve after the serum, which left Bucky behind; anger that it took the serum “fixing” Steve for everybody to see, actually see, Steve Rogers as anything more than a waste of space who got in too many alleyway fights; the fact that Steve has never once held Bucky’s ease and charm with women against him, even once the tables were turned. After the first rescue from HYDRA’s clutches, though, Bucky never tried to be who he was before the war. Too much changed between those two points in time. He realises he’s shaking, angry with – Steve. He can’t figure out why, why Steve when Steve has done everything in his power to save Bucky, why is he so damn angry at the new version of the kid from Brooklyn who was too stupid to run?

Thankfully, the Doctor Who theme song sounds from the living room, startling Bucky from his thoughts. He unclenches his fingers around the T-shirt that’s wadded up in his hand; he notes, vaguely, that the cloth is now torn. His joints pop as he climbs to his feet, and he stretches his whole body before making his way out of the room. His breaths quicken and his heart starts racing when he sees the unrecognised number flashing across the screen of his phone. He fears it’s HYDRA, that this is their plan to find him without him knowing it’s a trap. He can’t be the Asset again; he’ll kill himself before they get the chance to control him again. The phone stops ringing, but he doesn’t relax. The song starts up once more – same number. He reluctantly, hesitatingly, answers.

"Hello?"

“Um, Barnes, right? It’s Sam.”

“I remember you. The flying man.”

“Right. Wasn’t sure if you would.”

“They didn’t wipe me after the carrier. Didn’t get a chance.”

“Oh. Uh…”

“I’m sure you ain’t calling to reminisce about me kicking your ass.”

“You didn’t kick – Okay, you’re right. You did kick my ass, and I’m not calling to go over it. But, uh, I…”

“Sam, spit it out.”

“There’s no easy way to say this, man, but there’s been an…incident. Stay where you are. I’m on my way to you.”

“An incident?” repeats Bucky, ice coursing through his veins at Sam’s words.

“Clint’s been hurt, and it’s, well, it’s not looking good right now.”

Bucky doesn’t hear any more His brain is full of static and thoughts of Clint having been hurt. “It’s not looking good right now.” What the fuck does that even mean? Someone’s choking him; that has to be the reason for his sudden inability to breathe. But the only one strong enough is Steve, and Steve’s on a mission with the rest of the Avengers, with Clint, and oh, god, he’s drowning, choking on nothing and everything, gasping in breaths that don’t fill his lungs enough and set his chest on fire. His stomach is on the floor, and his heart is in his throat, and he can’t think, can’t imagine anything other than a lifeless body with no colour, as grey and cold as Bucky’s world has been until Clint, as dead and devoid of anything beautiful as Bucky’s world will forever be without Clint.

Oh, Death, take me instead.