Not Going Down Without a Fight

It was a stupid thing to say… I’m sorry I’ve been such a
burden and I’m sorry I haven’t even said thank you for
taking care of me. I’m sorry for being such a shitty person.



Well, that just won’t do.

Bucky slams the door open, strides down the short hallway, and drops to his knees in front of Clint. Clint keeps his lashes lowered, gaze on a spot in between them.

“Look at me. Damn it, Clint, look at me.” Finally, Clint does. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I promise, I’m not. Yeah, you’ll drive me crazy, or get on my nerves, or piss me off, but… but I want that. I want you. All of you. Quirks and flaws and all. I’m. Not. Going. Anywhere. Because you’re an amazing, bright spot in my life. So please, get that thought outta that pretty little head of yours. You’re stuck with me, doll.”

Clint gives him a slight smile. “Even though I’m a trainwreck?”

“Honey, you could be the whole damn Titanic going down, and I wouldn’t want you less.”

“I’ll show you ‘going down,’” mutters Clint before clapping his hand over his mouth. “That… That wasn’t supposed to come out.”

Bucky manages to stop laughing. “It’s fine. Also, it’s time for dinner. You up for eating anything?”

"Not really, but painkillers suck on an empty stomach.”

“I’ll make you toast then.” Bucky leans up to press a gentle kiss to Clint’s lips. “I’ll be right back.”

The rest of the night goes easier. Clint makes an obvious effort to bite his tongue, to keep his complaints unspoken. That’s not to say he doesn’t complain at all, but there’s a significant decline in the amount of whining. He even lets Bucky carry him into the bedroom without making a big deal. Bucky props the broken leg on a pillow and curls his body around Clint’s. They fall asleep with fingers entwined.



Agent Coulson beckons Bucky into the office, and the junior agent who led him through the halls disappears immediately. Bucky sits in the chair across from the nondescript man who’s still writing in a heavy, bound book with its thick pages marred by immaculate print. Finally, Coulson finishes and shuts the book quietly. He doesn’t bother moving it from Bucky’s sight, just leaves it where it is as he pulls a file folder toward the centre of the desk.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr Barnes. How is Agent Barton doing?”

“He’s being a pain in my ass, so I’m gonna say he’s doing fine.”

Only the slightest twitch of Coulson’s lips belies his neutral expression. “Yes, he has a tendency to be a rather persistent thorn in people’s sides.” He clears his throat quietly. “I won’t mince words, Mr Barnes. This has been a long, hard fight. Between all parties involved, there were a lot of disagreements, head-butting – thankfully, not literally – and, for lack of any other eloquence whatsoever, temper tantrums. The entire situation was only resolved late last week.

“I’d like to offer you a position here with SHIELD.”

Silence reigns in the office. Coulson merely folds his hands on top of the folder and waits, staring with a pleasant expression at Bucky. The words are still ringing in his ears a full minute later. His brain is a chaotic jumble, as he replays the conversation. Eventually, he regains the ability to speak.

“Uh, you do know what I’ve done, right?”

“It was HYDRA, Mr Barnes, not you. And even if it had been you, in full mental capacity, well… We here at SHIELD have a propensity for hiring those most would rather shoot violently than even consider interviewing. I believe two of our top agents are friends of yours. Perhaps they’ll tell you their histories, if you don’t believe me. Besides the fact that HYDRA was controlling you, you have a skillset we need.

“You can say no, if you truly want, and the matter will be dropped.” Coulson smiles faintly at Bucky’s derisive snort. “You can also make demands, conditions, to your employment contract. For example, you could agree to employment with SHIELD on the condition that you only work with the Avengers, and you pick which missions without the team you wish to undergo.”

Bucky considers the pointed tone with which the agent speaks. “So, uh, if I agree, I can say ‘no’ to missions I don’t want to go on? I can make it to where the missions revolve around the Avengers, right? I’d get… I’d get full control over my decisions?”

“For the most part. There <em>will</em> be missions you won’t have the opportunity to refuse. There’s always a chance that a mission you go on for SHIELD will clash with the Avengers’ separate mission, and, depending on the op you’re already on, you won’t be authorised to leave to help out. But other than those points, yes, you’ll have majority control.”

"Can…” Bucky bites his lip, fingers twitching in his lap. “Can I take the contract, talk it over with the others?”

“I will email a copy to Ms Potts. Though she’s no longer Mr Stark’s personal assistant, I’m sure she’ll help you make an informed decision. Whenever you’ve decided, whatever choice you’ve made, contact me directly. Thank you, Mr Barnes. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve somehow managed to acquire the task of filling out Agent Barton’s post-op forms. Again.”

“Of course. Have a good day, Agent Coulson.”

“You, as well.”

As Bucky exits the building, he can’t help but feel he got dragged into working for SHIELD, regardless of the fact the paperwork isn’t signed.



Bucky grits his teeth as a loud clang rips the air. “Well, if they didn’t know we were here, they do now.”

“Can it, Buck,” retorts Steve, knocking the now-shattered lock off the door.

“Heat signatures are still in the lower levels, Cap.”

“Thanks, Iron Man.”

“Aw, how come he gets called ‘Buck’, but I’m stuck as ‘Iron Man’? I want a cool nickname – wait, no, I take that back. ‘Iron Man’ is a cool nickname, a damn cool one. Never mind – ”

“Cut the chatter.”

Stark surprisingly falls silent at Steve’s order, and Bucky smirks as he follows Captain America into the rundown building.

This is the first mission that Bucky’s gone on; Stark had made him aware that Fury only signed off on it because of the number of people who could put Bucky down – Natasha was counted in that estimate. Steve looked pained at his boyfriend’s words, but Bucky appreciate the honesty, even with the flippant manner with which it was delivered. As far as Bucky knows, Fury would prefer him under closer monitoring and a much shorter leash; but, seriously, how much closer can the monitoring get than Steve Rogers? Although, if it wasn’t for the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan, Bucky never would’ve heard about this mission. He would still be doing mindless training (he’s trained long enough in the past seven decades, thanks) or enduring yet another lecture over SHIELD requirements (snore) if he hadn’t walked into the communal level of the Tower while waiting for Clint to finish at a medical check-up and been ambushed by Steve, being stopped immediately with “Up for an op, Buck?” And now, here’s Bucky, walking silently in his best friend’s footsteps, ears alert for any sound, eyes peeled for any movement.

What had started as a simple raid, however, has turned into a two-week operation. Natasha, under a myriad of disguises, had gone in on the first day as a potential buyer for whatever AIM was selling, only to come back to the rendezvous point later that night, looking as shaken as she ever allowed anyone to see.

“There are bigger fish in the pond,” she said, dropping her cell phone on the table, where photos of HYDRA and other, unfamiliar tech were visible.

So their plan changed from “Storm, salt, and burn” to… Whatever the Hell this is. The worst part of it all, at least for Bucky, is the radio silence they’ve been forced to operate under. None of them have been able to call or text, not even SHIELD HQ, which means he has to compartmentalise his worries. He’s just glad he managed to convince Clint to accept the condition that agents are to be with him the entire time. That knowledge alone has made this entire mission so much easier on Bucky than it would’ve been otherwise.

He’s still indescribably on edge as the team makes their way through a labyrinth of corridors, following intel from Natasha and the occasional information fed through the comms by Stark. Bucky is the first to raise concerns about the suspicious lack of bad guys; Steve repeats the same phrase he said before they entered the building: “Don’t borrow trouble. Just focus on completing the op and staying alive.”

Once Stark announces, sounding almost confused, that they’re on top of the heat signatures, everyone freezes, stares around the large, empty room. No bodies, no weapons, nothing but broken planks of wood and rough straw littering the warehouse floor. Bucky can hear only his teammate’s breathing, quiet in the deafening silence – until a nearly-inaudible sound reaches his ears. He knows Steve can hear it, too, by the way the Captain’s shoulders tense and his body goes even more rigid. The soft whine, unheard by the others, draws to an abrupt stop, and Steve and Bucky barely have time enough to scream for everyone to hit the deck. It’s a remarkable show of trust that no one hesitates; their bodies drop to the floor just as a blinding white-blue flashes through the room, hitting the far wall with an ear-splitting roar and explosion. In the rain of dust and debris, Bucky sees hazy outlines of the attackers – invisible to the naked eye, only seen thanks to the cloud of shattered concrete and mortar lingering on the forms. He kicks out gently with one foot until his boot connects with someone’s shoulder; strong, slender fingers squeeze his ankle in reply, a wordless acknowledgement of their attention. He gestures toward the silhouettes with a small wave of his fingers. Though the exchanges of information are silent and minute, he can feel the current as tension mounts, as Natasha conveys the message to another – probably Sam or one of the five SHIELD agents who’d come along – who passes it on to Tony to Steve. Bucky glances over his shoulder in time to see Natasha gesture from Iron Man’s repulsor toward the wall: Shoot out more, so we have a fucking chance! Steve nods, as if his opinion on the plan really matters at this point in time.

“I’m gonna figure out how the fuck they managed this – this,” mutters Stark once another portion of wall is blasted away and another handful of goons are showered in dust.

“Figure out a way to stop it,” orders Steve through gritted teeth as he swings the shield to collide rather painfully with an invisible opponent.

Tony hums in the affirmative; Bucky allows Natasha to use his left arm as a launch pad. She manages to wrap her legs around one goon, grab another, and use her momentum to incapacitate both at once. Bucky dodges an ashy figure, swinging his metal arm around and smacking directly against the attacker’s lower neck. A pained squeal, then they’re down. Time passes, and more outlines keep coming. Steve calls out for an update; Stark stays suspiciously quiet. Then, with a loud screech of feedback, Stark laughs breathlessly.

“I’m good, Cap. I’m fine. Uh, give it five…four…three, two… – They should be visible now.”

It happens faster than Bucky can see. One second, he’s planting a foot firmly into the chest of a grey-coated foe, then the next, a broad-shouldered man is crashing into the wall. All around him, the opponents are popping into visibility. Bucky grabs the man closest to him by the collar of his flimsy armour, but the man’s jaw ticks, and then he’s frothing at the mouth. Bucky lets him drop with a grunt of disgust, not caring about the sickening wet thud as the man’s skull connects with the concrete floor. Dead men don’t feel pain, anyway. He throws himself into the furore of the fight with relish, breaking jaws before any more can loosen the cyanide capsules.

By the time the HYDRA/AIM/whoever else idiots are rounded up, Bucky’s broken fourteen jaws, seven noses, a dozen arms, and – somehow – his own right hand. Natasha has a split lip and is holding a hand tightly to her side, her fingers tinted with blood. Steve’s cheek bears a long gash from temple to chin; the five SHIELD agents selected to assist on the mission are down to four: Mendez’s body will be collected by the clean-up crew, while the remaining agents undergo questioning about the op and exactly how the fallen agent died. Bucky sees Natasha limping away; he races after her, grabs her arm in his broken hand, and steers her forcefully toward Medical, ignoring her icy glares. Stark is sitting on the bumper of the van, holding gauze to his forehead. It (almost) worries Bucky to see the dazed look in the genius’s eyes. Steve wanders over, bandage plastered to his cheek, and watches as Nat finally stops fighting the inevitable. She raises her top far enough to expose the slice through her abdomen. Her only saving grace, the only thing that prevented fatal damage, is the thick yet lightweight armour she’s wearing. Stark pales at the sight, mutters something to himself – or maybe JARVIS, through the comms. Sam is the only one, besides Bucky, relatively uninjured; his wings helped tremendously in keeping himself out of any potential damage. Bucky watches over the team as a medic sets his hand and puts it in a splint; a cast would be moot at this point. He turns away once the medic is done. His metal fingers deftly reassemble the pieces of his cheap burner phone. He sends a short text to Clint, a simple All clear, and waits, gaze on the clean-up, until the team is allowed to leave.

Natasha disappears as soon as the quinjet lands at the tower, and Sam waves slightly before making his way to the guest floor. Steve hesitates in the doorway, obviously caught between wanting to stay with Bucky in the open air or following Tony as he ambles down the hallway. Bucky rolls his eyes and shoos Captain Worry-Pants away. Steve frowns but leaves.

Once only the sound of distant Manhattan traffic is all that he can hear, Bucky sighs, shoulders slumping, and crosses to the edge of the landing pad. Lights from far below and all around the building obscures the sky in a dull, orange-white haze, and he finds himself wishing for simpler, half-remembered times, times that were tough and ugly, but beautiful in their routine. There were long nights and even longer days, full of hard work and empty bellies, barren of hope for much better. But now that the future is here, and he’s smack in the middle of it, he still can’t seem to find hope for much better; there’s far too many openings for evil, made more accessible by technological advances and easier passing of messages and even more greed. The only good thing about the future is that he and Steve are here together.

And Clint.

Clint, who’s waiting at the apartment. Bucky allows himself sixty more seconds to watch the city before he turns on his heel, takes the elevator to the ground floor, and hails a cab. The driver grins when Bucky offers double the fare to get to Bed-Stuy in under thirty minutes.

Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Bucky slides out of the backseat, thrusts a wad of cash to the cabbie, and slings his go-bag over his shoulder. The walk up the stairs is quiet, devoid of people. He stands in the hall outside Clint’s door (the one Tony bought after Sam had to break the original one down, the one Bucky claimed an anger episode in order to explain the fact that it’s clearly not the one Clint had before his last Avengers mission); the sound of laughter and quiet conversation filters through the wood. His brows furrow in confusion, even as he pushes open the door.

Clint doesn’t look up from the cards in his hands, just calls out, “Glad you made it home. Any trouble?”

“Uh… Nothing we couldn’t handle?”

That response garners a quick quirk of one of his eyebrows. “Tell me later?”

“Sure.” Bucky glances at the four agents sitting around the table, their faces expressionless. “You guys almost done?”

Clint nods, laying his cards face-up on the table in front of him. The agents all grumble; the youngest-looking one even throws his cards to the tabletop with a groan. Clint laughs and pulls the winnings toward him. Bucky watches as the four men file past. Once the last one is gone and the door is shut, Bucky drops his bag to the floor and helps Clint hobble to the couch. They lean against each other in the quiet of the apartment, Clint’s fingers brushing gently over Bucky’s healing right hand. After dropping a gentle kiss to the knuckles, Clint drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky smiles, twisting enough to press his lips to the soft hair.

“Have fun?” murmurs Clint, nosing against Bucky’s throat, as if he’s forgotten what Bucky smells like in the past two weeks.

“It was all right. I’d much rather have been here with you, though.” Bucky pauses. “But seriously, poker with the SHIELD agents who were assigned to keep you out of trouble?”

Clint chuckles, a low sound so full of happy that it tightens Bucky’s chest with emotion. “Hey, I’ll have you know that I won four hundred dollars between Carlton and Harper, along with Harper’s really nice watch, an IOU of my choice from Sullivan, and from Newton, I won a chance to annoy the everloving fuck out of Fury.”

“Don’t you do that anyway?” asks Bucky, without really expecting an answer; Clint pulls back far enough for his gleeful smile to be visible.

“Yeah, but this time, there are no repercussions!”

Bucky snorts his disbelief, his tone sarcastic when he says, “You keep believing that, sweetheart.” He leans down to capture Clint’s mouth with his own. He can taste sticky-sweet soda, smoky cigar, and Clint on the other man’s tongue. “I missed the fuck outta ya.”

Clint sighs softly, snuggles closer. “Missed you, too, Brooklyn.”