Birds of a Feather

When James "Bucky" Barnes, the legendary Winter Soldier himself, finally comes in from hunting down HYDRA by himself, Clint takes it upon himself to help the man get acclimated to his new life as a free man instead of a weapon of war. Unfortunately, it turns out that maintaining a friendship with an ex-assassin is harder than it appears to be, especially when pesky feelings get involved.



Clint is in the ass-end of Uzbekistan when everything goes to Hell in a handbasket. He's just gotten back to the safehouse after six hours of sitting on a rooftop in the rain, keeping an eye on the latest threat to international security, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he unzips his duffel in the bland room he's taken residence in for this op. The voice that sounds an awful lot like Coulson tells him something isn't right here, something is very definitely wrong. He nocks an arrow on his bow, spins on his heel, and aims at the door, waiting and ready.

“Lower the weapon, Hawkeye.”

“It's good to see you, sir, but not until you lower yours.”

Coulson grins, sharp and bright in the dimness of the room, but he does lower his gun, so Clint counts it as a win. He sets the bow on the bed and finishes tugging out a fresh change of clothes. He can feel Coulson's gaze on him as he strips out of his soaking jeans and black t-shirt, and he maybe plays it up a bit just for that much more attention. Once he's dressed again, he faces Coulson, ducks forward to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s mouth.

“Missed you, sir,” he whispers softly, and Coulson's answering smile is softer this time.

“I missed you, too. But we don't have time to waste, so I need you to be serious and listen up.”

“Sir?”

“I can't explain it right now, but we need to get out of here. What do you know of what's going on?”

“Nothing. I know what this mission is for, but that's it. Sir, is every—?”

He doesn't get the question out before the loud bang of the front door bursting open interrupts him. Coulson drags him down the hall toward the back door; there, in the shadows just outside the window, they find safety, but Clint groans, low and quiet.

“What?”

“My bow.”

“Oh, fucking… Barton, don't you dare.”

Clint darts through the door, keeping low to the ground, and weaves his way through the darkened kitchen and hall until he reaches the room he'd been staying in. His bow and quiver are on the bed still. He grins, victorious, before rushing across the room. He just barely gets the quiver on his back when there's the sound of a gun cocking behind his head. He rolls his eyes.

“I am so fucking done with my life being threatened,” he drawls as he turns on his heel. “Agent Hallen, how wonderful to see your gun. Aimed at my face. Is it because you're excited to see me? Be careful, now. Premature ejaculation isn't exactly a turn-on, even if it's understandable when you have a face like yours.”

Hallen sneers. “Think you're so funny, don't you, Hawkeye? Well, here's a joke for ya. SHIELD. SHIELD is a joke. And it's one that's taking its last breath.”

“Just like you,” Clint quips as a shadow moves just past Hallen’s head.

“Wha—?”

The gunshot is painfully loud in such tight quarters, and even though Clint tries to get out of the way, there's really no stopping blood and brain matter from splattering everywhere when a bullet goes speeding through a skull. He does manage to step to the side before a dead man collides with him, so that's good. Coulson glares at Clint when he steps into the room.

“I know, I know, you told me not to dare. Can you discipline me later and we get outta here now?”

“Where are the others?”

“I have no idea. Chumley was supposed to be on camera-sitting duty, but if you didn't see him in the living room, then that means he's rabbited for whatever reason. Santos and Lawrence were out making the rounds as a couple so they'd be seen all over town and not blow their cover.”

“I don't think they need to worry about maintaining their cover any more.”

Clint gathers up his bag and follows after Coulson through the corridors, both searching rooms silently. Chumley's computers are still set up on the coffee table, but instead of silent video feeds, all the screens are filled with black backgrounds and a vibrant red symbol that Clint knows well enough from history books. He whines.

“Aw, HYDRA, no.”

“Yes. Now shut up before you get us caught.” Coulson unplugs the computers, cutting the main source of illumination in the room, leaving only street lamps and the moon outside to light the way. “Did the other two say when they'd be back?”

“No, but they don't usually stay out this late. Shh.”

Soft footsteps make their way through the kitchen, and Clint grimaces. SHIELD really did not get the lesson of Silent is better, dumb ass drilled into the head of whoever is sneaking up on them. He nocks an arrow as Coulson raises his gun, and they stay completely still as the person nears.

“Hawkeye? Oh, god, please tell me you're okay. Oh, god, please don't be Lawrence. Goddamn it, HYDRA…”

“Santos?”

The footsteps stop. “Agent Coulson?”

A beam of light flares to life, and Clint squints in the brightness. Santos swears under her breath before pointing the flashlight at the floor. Clint can see she's terrified but hiding it well. She keeps her shoulders back as she examines the rest of the room.

“Where's Lawrence?” Coulson asks; he doesn't seem to be taking chances.

“I don't know, sir. He just...disappeared out of nowhere, and I tried looking for him because we're supposed to stay together, but I couldn't find him, so I came back here. He's not here? Where's Chumley?”

“Chumley skedaddled,” replies Clint. “And it seems he went with his fellow HYDRA buddy.”

“We need to get out of here.”

“Where are we going, sir?”

Coulson doesn't even look back at Santos as he strides across the room to the front door. “Anywhere but here. Let's go.”

The trio slips from the safehouse in the cover of the night; Santos stays close behind Clint, her footsteps just barely out of range of his, and he stays close behind Coulson. They reach the end of the street without issue, and the next corner beckons tantalizingly, tauntingly. They stay within the shadows, silence their main ally, but halfway down, a loud crack rents the air, and Santos screams.

Clint turns just in time to see her crumpling to the ground; her hands clutch tightly to her thigh, fingers staining red, almost black in the dark. Coulson's there in an instant, and Clint stands pressed to a tree, sharp eyes searching for any sign of movement. He can hear Coulson muttering something to Santos, but the words are nearly inaudible. He doesn't try too hard to listen, though, too intent on finding… Ah, there it is. The arrow hits its mark, and the silhouette goes down with a strangled yelp.

It's almost too easy to find the other target—Clint waits until the shadow is coming up on where the first one fell then looses the second arrow. He leaves Coulson and Santos behind, darting across the street and through the houses until he gets to the alley, and skids to a stop. Chumley is dead, but Lawrence is still groaning as his hands tug at the arrow in his gut.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

The glare Lawrence sends his way is full of venom and hatred, though his eyes are already glassing over from pain and internal bleeding. “Fuck you, Hawkeye.”

“Man, what'd I ever do to you? I mean, besides the obvious of shooting you in the stomach, but that's neither here nor there.”

“Fuck you. Hail HYDRA.”

Lawrence collapses back onto the pavement with an agonized moan, eyes closing as he starts convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Clint sighs and retrieves his arrows from the bodies, ignores the sickening squelch as he yanks the shafts through skin and muscle.

“Fucking cyanide pills. Fucking HYDRA. Fucking fuck fuck.”

After wiping as much blood off the arrowheads as he can (and of course he uses Lawrence's uniform, because he ain't getting more filth on his clothes if he doesn't have to), he hurries back to where he left the others. Coulson is sitting back on his haunches; his suit jacket is off, wrapped around Santos's thigh, but it obviously did no good. One look, and Clint can tell she's gone. Coulson glances up as Clint nears, the question in his blue eyes evident.

“Got 'em, sir.”

“Let's go.”

They make it to a seedy-looking motel on the edge of the city, and Coulson leads them to a door at the end furthest from the office. Inside, he does a quick search of the room before he leans down to tug a duffel out from the space under the bed. Clint doesn't need to be told to go shower. He lets his hand drift across Coulson's back as he makes his way to the bathroom. The water pressure sucks, but it does the job. He steps out of the stall to find a nondescript suit hanging on the back of the door.

Once he's dressed, he opens the door and lets the steam billow out. Coulson is sitting on the bed, his hands clasped tightly on his lap, and he stares at the floor. Clint knows that look in his eye, that expression on his face. He sighs, puts the ball of bloody clothes into his duffel, and goes to sit next to the other man.

“Sir, what's going on?”

“Not here.”

“You okay?”

“She was a good one. She was loyal.”

“Yes, she was, but sir, you know safety and, well, life isn't guaranteed in our work.”

“She should never have died because of HYDRA.”

“I agree, but she did. And we need to get out of here before more come after us.”

“You're right.”

Coulson doesn't get up for another moment, but when he does, he moves quickly. Clint carries the bags out to a car in the parking lot, letting Coulson do the actual hot-wiring, and slides into the passenger seat as the engine rumbles to life. He keeps his eyes peeled for any kind of danger as Coulson maneuverer the car through the late-night traffic to the airport.

“Uh, sir?”

“Don't worry, Barton. I have a plan.”

“You always do, sir.”

There is an absurdly large amount of people waiting for flights as they make their way to the check-in desk. Coulson reaches for Clint's hand as they near, and Clint isn't one to deny the man anything, so he clings back. The man behind the desk barely looks at the pair as he greets them. Clint zones out as Coulson speaks in Uzbek, presumably requesting the first flight out. It's when he hears tears in Coulson's voice that Clint pays more attention. He can't understand the words, but he does know that whatever Coulson is saying is causing the agent to look vaguely uncomfortable. Finally, Coulson sniffs audibly and bows his head in respect.

“Rahmat. Sizga katta rahmat.”

Clint and Coulson don't speak until they reach their seats on the plane half an hour later. They wait for the flight attendant to pass, then Coulson shifts into Phil, and Clint relaxes a bit. Not much—there's still the threat of HYDRA, but enough that he doesn't feel like he's vibrating out of his skin. The plane slowly taxis down the runway, gaining speed and rising into the air; Clint swallows hard at the slight juddering of the aircraft before it levels out.

“What'd you say to him?”

“I told him we were on a business trip, and I just got the call that my mother was in hospital and near death, and I needed to be by her side. He seemed very keen to get us out of there.”

“Maybe it was the crying, sir.”

Phil smiles. “Perhaps. I suppose we're safe enough now, so it's time for me to explain what's going on.” He sighs, his grin fading fast, and he stares out the window past Clint's head. When he speaks, it's quiet, a whisper under the thrum of the engines. “SHIELD has been compromised. Fury has been shot, and as far as the world knows, he's dead. HYDRA sent someone after him when he went to Steve's apartment, but he managed to get a thumb drive to the captain. When he and Natasha tried to access it, they found out that Arnim Zola had been saved as a program of sorts, his consciousness transferred to computer memory. Anyway, he's the one who informed us that HYDRA is within SHIELD.”

“Oh, fuck. How long?”

“According to Steve, Zola said since SHIELD’s inception. They planned on three helicarriers to launch and immediately take out anyone who's a threat to their plans through an algorithm of Zola's creation, millions at a time. Hill, Steve, Natasha, and Sam, someone Steve met in DC, kind of ruined that plan by trading the original chips for ones that had a different targeting system loaded on them, and the helicarriers went down. Steve barely made it out.”

“So, we've been working HYDRA’s agenda instead of for the good guys. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. How's Natasha taking it?”

“Like she usually does. She's working through it by taking out anyone in Hydra gear with extreme prejudice. She'll be okay, though. But I haven't even told you the best part.”

“Phil, literally nothing you're telling me can lead to anything good.”

Phil nods in agreement. “True. But...you remember the ghost story, right?”

“Everybody in SHIELD knows the ghost story. It's part of the curriculum—Legends One-oh-one.”

“Well, the ghost story isn't a ghost story. The Winter Soldier exists.”

“No way. You're shitting me, man.”

“And he has a name.” He stares at Clint until Clint evidently looks suitably curious. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“I know that name, why do I know that name?” Clint pauses, thinks. “No.”

“Yes! Captain Steve Rogers's best friend. Apparently, Zola experimented on him during his time in Azzano, trying to recreate Erskine's serum so that HYDRA could have their own super-soldier. Whatever Zola injected him with worked. Barnes survived the fall off that train in the Alps, HYDRA found him and continued their work.

“He's been shuffled back and forth between shady organizations for the last seventy years, including the Red Room. No one is sure, exactly, about how he's been kept under control for so long, but something happened on that helicarrier. Something in his brain snapped. He rescued Steve from the Potomac, called emergency services, then disappeared.”

“How sure are we that he isn't back with HYDRA and in hiding?” Clint asks after a pause.

“Two North American bases have gone up in a mess of smoke, flames, and carnage in the last twenty-four hours. So if he's gone back to lay low, he's really doing it wrong.”

“Okay. So what now?”

Phil exhales heavily and leans his head back against the headrest. “Fury's gone to ground since he's still supposedly dead. He's going to try to smoke out any lingerers in SHIELD, or what's left of it.”

“And we’re supposed to just let him do this alone?” Clint presses his palms against his eyes before sighing. “All right. So how is Steve dealing with this latest revelation?”

Phil sighs, lets Clint link their fingers together. “He’s not, not really. He’s already planning to scour the earth until he finds Barnes, and I don’t think he’ll give a damn about the destruction along the way.”

“Need me to help?”

“Not yet. I think Steve is hoping he can bring Barnes in, rescue him like he couldn’t seventy years ago. Survivor’s guilt is a Hell of a thing,” he says, his voice dour. “Just… be there for him, please.”

“I can do that, and I won’t even drive him up the wall while doing it. Much. What if he convinces Barnes to come back with him?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it.”

The rest of the flight is quiet between them. Clint lets Phil doze; there’s a pleasant warmth that still flares whenever Phil does little things like this, that shows he trusts Clint undoubtedly. Clint is tempted to watch out the windows—he loves being so high up, seeing so much of the world at once—but he knows it's more important that he keeps an eye on the other passengers and the flight attendants that make their way up and down the aisle. He nudges Phil awake when the seatbelt light turns on, and they both shift in their seats as the planes begins its descent.

JARVIS greets the pair the second they enter the elevator. Clint relaxes against the wall, ignoring the way the bar digs into his lower back, and smiles. He’s finally home again. The mission in Uzbekistan, even before it went balls-up, was long and tiring, mostly because it was monotonous. The team had made little progress in finding the cartel in charge of distributing alien weaponry; now that Clint thinks about it, that probably has a lot more to do with the fact that seventy-five percent of the team had been fucking HYDRA and less to do with his skills being rusty. Phil follows him off the lift and down the corridor, waits patiently as Clint inputs his code and pushes open the door.

Clint comes to an abrupt stop when he takes in the sight of his apartment. It's spotless—the usual mess of unattached fletchings that normally clutter up the coffee table have been cleared away, the crossbow that was leaning against the wall when he left is now on a shelf that certainly wasn't there before, and the coffee mugs are no longer strewn about the living room and kitchenette. A briefcase rests along the side of the couch, and Clint turns to face Phil.

“Sorry,” murmurs Phil with a shrug. “I didn't think you'd mind.”

Clint laughs. “Are you fucking kidding me? Of course I don't mind. It's less work for me. No more having to travel just to get in your pants!”

Living with Phil is much less life-altering than Clint ever would have assumed. He enjoys waking up to the warmth and comfort of Phil, even though Phil wakes up grumpy and refuses conversation until he's had a cup of coffee, his morning piss, and at least half a plate of bacon (not always in that order, and sometimes two at the same time). Clint relishes the strength of Phil's arms around him as they fall asleep in the middle of hushed conversations about nothing and everything. Looking over to see Phil stretched out on the couch after a long day of paperwork and legalities, training and the occasional Avengers-required fighting, will never cease to send a thrill down Clint's spine.

It's with very little surprise that Clint finds out exactly where Natasha has been disappearing so often. He knows Phil warned him, only a few months ago, that Steve would never give up on finding Barnes, but this is just insane. He's aware that if Natasha or Sam tries to convince Steve to stop, to just wait, he'll only see it as them not wanting to help any more, that they're tired of traipsing all over the globe and getting nowhere. So he bides his time.

“I'm not coming back,” she says when she calls him later that evening. “I can't, not yet.”

Once the call disconnects—and seriously, Nat, give a man the chance to say something—Clint makes his way down to communal level, knowing Steve will eventually show up there. Tony is in the kitchen, his voice manic and words rapid-fire, and Thor smiles gamely and nods every so often. Bruce sits at the dining table with a tablet, finger poking at the screen. Clint hops up onto the counter and ignores the word vomit coming from his left.

Steve arrives within the next ten minutes; his shoulders are slumped, his face a combination of distraught and angry. Tony suddenly stops speaking with a click of his teeth, and Clint glances at him. Oh, boy, he thinks at the furious expression. Evidently, Steve sees the glare Tony is directing at him.

“Don't. Just… don't.”

“How many times is this?”

“Tony, please.”

“No. This is killing you, Rogers. Have you even slept recently?”

“He's right, you know,” agrees Clint. “You look like shit, and you're running yourself ragged.”

“I can't just stop looking for him! He's my best fuckin’ friend. Would you stop if it was Colonel Rhodes? What about you, Clint? Would you just give up and go home if it was Natasha?”

“Yes. Yes, I would. Wanna know why?” He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't even enjoy the gobsmacked way that Steve gapes at him. “Because she'd be doing the same thing Barnes is—taking out the people who controlled her, the people who used her to do unspeakable things, the people who broke her down and built her into a weapon for their gain. And guess what, Steve.

“I was in the exact same position as you are now. I was stuck in the pattern of tracking her down only to get there too late, constantly repeating the pattern over and over. It was only because of Coulson that I realized hunting her down and going after her each and every time I heard so much as a whisper of her presence… it was all pushing her away from me, from home and safety. But once I stopped, stayed behind, and let her do what she needed to do to get some retribution and, and closure? She came back. It took some time—a helluva lot of time, honestly—but she finished what she'd set out to do and quit running. She came home.”

Steve sags against the doorframe, covers his eyes with one large hand. “Why didn't she tell me any of this? We're a team, and if she had experience with being the runner… she coulda told me. Shoulda told me.”

“Would you have listened, though? Would you have said, 'Ya know what? You're right, let's go home’? Or would you have insisted you knew him best and trying to force him in was the right choice? Because that decision, the choice to come in from his one-man mission of vengeance against HYDRA, is one he needs to make himself. Not because his best friend from before all the mind-fuckery and torture was too stubborn to realize he was making a choice that wasn't his to make.”

“You're right.” Steve sighs. “You're right. I… I'm gonna go apologize to her. And Sam. Thanks, Clint.”

Once Steve has disappeared into the elevator, Tony exhales sharply and turns to Clint. “Thanks, birdbrain. I… I can’t get him to see reason, and he’s been burning the candle at both ends.”

“You love him, don’t you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” snaps Tony. “The team needs a leader who isn’t about to collapse from exhaustion, and I certainly am not volunteering for that job.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that. Well, now that we’ve talked about at least one part of your fucked-up love life, I’m gonna go back to my stable, solid relationship.”

Clint curses his luck when, just as he reaches the elevator, Tony’s voice sounds from behind him, quiet and defeated.

“I think Barnes killed my parents.”

Aw, drama, no, he whines mentally before turning back to Tony. “What do you mean? What makes you think that?”

“J?”

A holoscreen pops up over the island counter, and Clint slumps but heads back to the kitchen. The screen is a crystal white, and Clint knows, he knows, that Tony had something to do with it, that Clint can’t see something of that vivid icy blue without falling backwards into memories. He sighs, hops up onto the island, and swipes a finger across the window of words to bring it closer.

It’s a file, that much is clear, but his Russian is rusty at best, so he’s not entirely sure that the words are what he thinks they are. But he’s pretty sure, according to the sinking feeling in his gut, that this absolutely says something about an “asset completing tasks” and… recalibration necessary? What the fuck? Clint scrolls through the information until he lands upon an old article, one complete with a photograph and bearing the words Howard and Maria Stark Die in Car Accident. Tony reaches over, jabs at a seemingly-innocuous word buried in sentences that make no sense; Clint’s stomach jolts when he realizes that a video has started playing. He has to swallow a few times as he watches a figure slink out of the shadows and across the road to where the wreckage of the car is.

Clint has seen death before, so many times, but somehow, watching a video of someone’s mother, especially the mother of someone one considers a friend, being strangled with nothing more than a metal hand is just… too much. He glances back at the holoscreen and sees that the video has paused, frozen on the final frame. And yeah, that definitely looks like James Buchanan Barnes plus about a hundred pounds of metal for an arm and without all the charm that the history books proclaimed that he had.

“Why the hell is there a random-ass security camera on some backwoods road?”

Tony shrugs. “I—I think HYDRA put it there to keep an eye on Barnes, possibly in case he recognized my dad and things went sideways. Or maybe they just got their sick fucking rocks off on watching a mindless drone murdering a man who could’ve torn them apart from the inside. I just can’t… I can’t understand why he never noticed, never figured it out…”

“To be fair, running an intelligence agency is hard work, especially from the ground up. Add in running and designing for a huge company, and, well, shit slips through the cracks.” Clint pauses, picks at a nonexistent fiber on his jeans. “Does Steve know?”

“How the hell should I know? If he does, he isn’t telling. Think I should tell him?” he tacks on after a pause, and Clint doesn’t miss the apprehensive expression on Tony’s face.

“I think he should know. It’s… Barnes was his best friend, but Steve needs to know the shit Barnes has done so he doesn’t keep thinking he’s gonna be the same as he was back then. That kinda shit sticks with you, man.”

“I'll consider it. Thanks, Legolas. Not as dumb as you'd like us to believe, are you?”

Clint groans. “Aw, man, no, shut up. Don't tell anyone that, not they're gonna expect it all the time.”

Tony laughs as Clint slinks from the kitchen. With a sigh, Clint makes his way to his living quarters. Phil’s not there, too busy off helping Fury rebuild SHIELD, so there isn’t much that Clint can actually do short of hunting down Nat and risking her handing him his own ass on a silver platter. Even he knows that’s a terribly dumb idea; therefore, he flops onto the couch and calls out for JARVIS to turn on the TV. He is aware that he’s lazy, lazier than he should be, but he really doesn’t want to have to search for the remote. Besides, there is a perfectly good AI system that can do the hard work for him.

The next couple of weeks crawl by. The team is called out quite a few times to deal with whatever being has become sentient that has literally no right to actually be sentient, let alone trying to take over Manhattan, but most of that time is spent watching TV or managing to sneak a few video calls to Phil whenever the other man has the time (and distance away from Fury’s paranoid prying he calls “security”). Clint gets used to sleeping alone again, though he misses having a warm body curled up beside him.

He does, however, not hate the fact that without Phil there, he can sprawl out across the mattress as much as he wants, can wrap the blankets around himself as much as he wants, and can steal all the pillows to make a small fort on the bed that he can sleep inside of. Waking up in the mornings, warm and comfortable amidst comforters and pillows, is wonderful, even if he’s had to learn to ignore Phil’s voice in the back of his mind telling him to stop acting like a child.

Waking up at seven in the morning after not getting to sleep until four-thirty in the morning, his body aching from loosing arrows for hours, is not as wonderful.

Waking up so early after so little sleep because of a blaring alarm that rattles his brain and JARVIS announcing that there is a sudden appearance of danger in the tower’s lobby? So much worse.

Even so, he rolls out of the bed as smoothly as possible, yanks a pair of sweats over his boxers, and grabs his bow and quiver on his way to the elevator. He doesn’t bother stating a destination—JARVIS sends the lift straight down 90 floors, the doors open smoothly, and Clint rushes out while nocking an arrow. Tony is already in the lobby, armor-less except for the gauntlets, which he has aimed directly towards a figure standing just past the doors surrounded by security guards. Clint barely registers the whining of the repulsors as he takes in the scene.

A few feet away from James Barnes’s feet sits a black book-bag, as if it was kicked away from his reach. His bored, “I’m not dangerous, honest, mister!” expression slips momentarily into panic when one of the guards steps closer to the bag; Clint’s brain skips into overdrive. He knows Barnes is an assassin who has at least fifty murders under his belt, but he really doesn’t think Barnes would be dumb or cruel enough to bring explosives into a tower full of innocent civilians. So he mutters a “Sorry, Phil”, rushes across the room, and scoops up the bag. Lonnie jerks back with a shout, and Clint manages to flash a grin as he hurries away.

“Good instincts, but maybe searching the bag of potential explosives is best left to someone whose life isn’t nearly as important as yours.”

Quickly scanning the contents of the book-bag, he sags in relief; unless the bomb is inside the lining of the bag, there really is nothing of worry (or that screams impending death in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1), though Clint has to concede that there is an alarming amount of knives, handguns, and even brass knuckles inside, along with two journals. Clint slings the straps over his arm and nods in Tony’s direction. The guards are still on edge, which makes sense considering hello, creepy, intimidating man in the middle of the lobby with JARVIS still blaring the alarm, but with a single gesture from Tony, the incessant clanging goes silent. Clint jerks his head toward the group blocking the doorway.

“Maybe we should get away from our audience.”

Before they can take a step, the elevator doors open, and Nat steps out in all her mysterious beauty. In her hands is a pair of magnetic cuffs, and her face might as well have been stone for as much emotion as she’s expressing. Clint watches as she strides right up to Barnes without hesitation, yanks his arms behind his back, and slams the cuffs around his wrists. Barnes makes the right decision and doesn’t move, doesn’t put up a fight, just accepts his fate.

He follows obediently, silently, to the lift and stands in the exact middle; his gaze remains on the silver doors, and Clint wonders idly how he can be so nonreactive to having a repulsor ready to take off his face if he so much as sneezes. Natasha keeps one hand on Barnes’s elbow—Clint doesn’t miss the fact that she is avoiding his left arm—while she guides him out of the elevator. Clint’s surprised to see Steve looking incredibly calm from his spot on the couch. Barnes’s movements slow, become more cautious, when Steve stands and motions toward the armchair, but he acquiesces and sits. Nobody speaks, nobody moves, for a few minutes. Then…

“You stopped lookin’ for me, punk.”

Steve chuckles nervously, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah, Clint, uh, he explained I was probably making you run further away. Um… What… Why…?”

“He’s trying to ask what made you come in, why now, and how did you figure out where to go,” Tony announces after it becomes obvious that Steve isn’t capable of forming actual sentences at the moment.

Clint leans in toward Nat, murmuring under his breath, “And he says he’s not in love with good ol’ Cap.”

Barnes’s eyes flicker in Clint’s direction; a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but he focuses on explaining that he’d gotten nowhere with trying to take out the larger HYDRA bases by himself, he’s done enough damage on his own to the smaller installations, but he’s running out of steam and thought maybe it was time to come in.

“It's not...easy, anymore, to squash those damn roaches all alone. Somehow, they're recruiting faster than I can demolish 'em. There's, there's lots of big names on their roster, Steve, and those names carry lotsa firepower behind them. And plus, I can't do much with my arm actin’ like it is,” he admits with a twist of his lips, a grimace, as he shrugs his left shoulder. “Figured maybe you knew someone who has a decent toolkit, since my...mechanic kinda melted in an ambush in some lab in Austria.”

“And how you found me?”

“Seems the whole world knows where Captain America lives these days, wasn't that difficult to find an address.”

“I'm real glad to see you, Buck.”

“Same. Yay, Terminator has come home, but uh, not to ruin this reunion and all, but Steve, can I speak to you? In, uh, private?”

“Now?” Clint all but yelps. “You waited until now?”

Tony rolls his eyes, snapping out, “Shut up, Barton, no one asked you. Steve?”

Steve hesitates but finally nods. He doesn't move, though, for a few heartbeats. Barnes stares between Tony and Steve, brows furrowed in confusion; he stays silent even as the two men walk away, disappearing around the corner. Nat is still immobile, muscles tightly coiled and motionless, and her hand stays clenched around the hilt of the knife in her belt. Clint has to admit that his impressed. He would be squirming under the cold, unrelenting stare that Nat is sporting if it was aimed in his direction, but Barnes doesn't flinch at all.

Footsteps near the living room, and Clint looks up in time to see Bruce in the doorway. He glances away from the mug in his hand, stares at the trio, and seems to notice the tension between them. He blinks owlishly, slowly, before turning on his heel and leaving. Clint can't stop the chuckle that makes itself known.

The sound of his phone ringing interrupts the awkward silence; Clint has never been more thankful to hear an annoying ringtone in his entire life. Digging through his pockets brings up random bits of string, an arrowhead, spare change, the receipt from his daily Starbucks run, and finally, his cell at the bottom of the mess. He doesn't even look at the screen to see who's calling, just presses the Answer button and brings the device to his ear.

"Thank you so much, whoever you are. Why are you calling?"

The slightest of hesitations, then Phil's voice fills the line. "Not quite sure I want to know. JARVIS says our friend came in. Update, Barton."

"'S'all good, sir. We're all fine. Barnes seems fine, too, in case you were wondering." At the quick look Barnes sends his way, Clint grins widely, unashamedly. "Sorry, Barnes, not trying to be rude, l know it's very rude to talk about someone when they're in the same room, but I can't exactly leave right now, gotta help Nat make sure you don't go all murder-rage on us. "

"Clint," Phil sighs, his breath crackling along the line. "Maybe don't antagonize the man who's been tortured as a prisoner of war for the last seven decades."

"It's okay, sir, he's like a kicked puppy right now."

Barnes's look of disgust causes Clint to nearly explode into laughter. It's only because of Natasha's unamused expression that promises pain, that he manages to keep it inside. A noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle escapes when Phil and Barnes say in unison,

"That's not funny."

"Sure it is." He shrugs. "We're fine, sir. I promise. want Nat to verify?"

"Yes. please."

"You really don't trust me, do you?"

"You just compared a highly-trained assassin to a puppy. Let that be answer enough. Give me to Natasha."

"Aw. you love me, sir, and you know it."

"Yes, I do, and some days, I can't imagine why."

"It's my ass," Clint quips even as he passes the phone over.

Natasha hesitates momentarily but eventually grabs the phone, though she doesn't take her eyes off Barnes. She stays mostly quiet, only responding with quick one-word answers. Barnes has gone back to staring at the floor; Clint wonders if the assassin’s arms are aching from being pulled behind him for the past however long it’s been. With a sigh, Clint waves his hand to get Nat’s attention, gestures to Barnes, and waits for her reluctant nod before he kneels behind the other man.

He ignores the way Barnes’s back tenses, straightens, and though there is no change to the man’s breathing, there is no denying the fact that his pulse can now faintly be seen in his carotid. Clint feels around for the awkwardly-placed release, pressing it and stepping back quickly. Barnes stretches out his fingers and slowly brings his arms in front of him.

“Well, Cap needs a moment to wrap his mind around...everything, but he’ll be fine.” Tony leans against the doorframe, scrubs a hand over his face. He looks his age—no, older—right now, and Clint doesn’t envy him his responsibilities. “Okay, Terminator, there’s a room for you if you want it. You’ll have full control over who you let in or not. I almost said ‘out’, but that would have been dumb, because if someone wants out of your room, you should let them. Consent, it’s a thing, was it a thing in the forties? Well, either way, it is now. Anyway. Unfortunately for you, you will be under constant monitoring, which, JARVIS, say hello to your newest charge.”

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Where the fuck did he get his manners?” Clint asks to distract everyone’s attention from how Barnes freezes, his eyes darting around the room in something that resembles fear. “Because it sure wasn’t from you.”

Tony waves a hand in Clint’s direction, but a smile flits onto his face for a moment. He sobers, sighs. “The monitoring will be constant, literally, until, well…until you’re declared mentally fit. Sorry, Buckaroo, them’s the breaks. There won’t be video surveillance in the bathroom, though, so hey, some privacy, but he will be tracking your vitals at all times. He will alert someone if he thinks you’re a danger to yourself or others, and you’ll be locked out of a lot of the tower. If you try, you get one warning that it’s restricted. If you continue to try, he’s allowed to do what’s necessary to stop you, even if it ultimately ends up in your death because you wouldn’t stop trying. If you’re not sure, just ask him, ‘kay?”

“O-okay.”

“Look, I know it’s a lot of rules, but they’re there for the safety of everybody, including you.”

“As long as you’re not strippin’ me naked and hosin’ me down with ice water or strappin’ me in a chair and electrifying my brain before sending me out to kill someone, I can live with your rules.” Everyone stares at Barnes, a mixture of horror and disgust overtaking their expressions. “What?”

“I, uh, I vote we not ever let Cap know he said that,” announces Clint with a shudder.

“Wow, that was… Nothing, never mind. Birdbrain, Natasha, mind escorting Robocop to his room? J will show you where it is. There’s a super-soldier I have to stop from destroying the gym. Have fun, kiddies.”

To Clint’s nonexistent surprise, Natasha disappears the second they step into Barnes’s new living quarters. The room beyond the door is impressive—bland without being boring, lacking personality without looking like someone uprooted a hotel room and stuffed it inside an enormous tower. Thick, gray carpet in the living room, dark wood in the kitchen and the short hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathroom; blank walls painted a muted beige; long blackout curtains at each end of the floor-to-ceiling windows that take up the far wall. Someone at least had the decency to set up the kitchen. There is a small square table, a crock of cooking utensils, and a bowl of fruit on the counter.

Barnes doesn’t seem to have noticed anything around, too intent on staring after Nat. “She don’t like me, does she?”

Clint shrugs. “You met her before, maybe more than once, I dunno. Nat never tells me anything. All I know is pre-DC, you’d shot a target through her. Like, through through her. So… Sucky past. Trust me, if she didn’t actually like you, she’da killed you the second Steve left the room.”

“That’s...reassuring.”

“Yeah, she’s real reassuring like that. C’mon, let’s explore your new home.”

There is food already in the fridge, simple items that won’t require too much effort to cook, plus non-perishables in the cupboards. Barnes follows as Clint leads him toward the bedroom. A dresser stands against the wall closest to the closet, and Clint is pretty sure both are empty beyond maybe some standard Stark Industries gear. The curtains are tied back away from the window, and the room is illuminated with brilliant early morning sunlight. The bed is expertly made, blankets pulled taught and tucked in at the corners with the precision that wouldn’t be out of place in military barracks. Either Steve knew about Barnes’s arrival before anybody else, or Miss Potts is ridiculously scrupulous in her demands from the cleaning services. Once Barnes seems to have had enough of examining the sparsely-decorated room, they move on to the bathroom.

Clint nearly jumps out of his skin at the reaction that Barnes has to the sight of the oversized tub in the bathroom. A strangled noise that Clint can’t name fills the air, and he forces himself to not look at Barnes in an effort to prevent him from being embarrassed. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, Barnes steps away from the door, and Clint heads back to the bedroom. He finally puts Barnes’s bookbag, which he’d forgotten he was still carrying, on the floor just inside the door.

“Okay, so this is your place. You’re allowed to redecorate, Tony won’t give a shit. Just ask JARVIS for help ordering whatever you want.”

“How am I s’posed to pay for it? I mean, ain’t like Hydra paid in much beyond torture.”

“Communal Avengers fund, man.” Clint pauses. “You’re making an awful lot of jokes about what you’ve gone through, considering how long it went on.”

Barnes shrugs, avoids Clint’s gaze. “If I don’t make jokes, I might just lose what little of my mind I got left. Keeps me from thinkin’ too much, too seriously.”

“I get that,” says Clint, the voice in the back of his mind immediately sighing and admonishing him, You shouldn’t have said that, dumbass.

Thankfully, Barnes doesn’t react with anything more than a slow blink. He shrugs again and pushes past Clint to make his way to the living room. When Clint joins him, it’s to find Barnes standing by the window, staring out at the world beyond the glass. Clint hesitates but ultimately leaves him alone to settle in. He remembers how much he needed space after the bullshit with Loki; the last thing he wants right now—besides another call out to the field because of people who think they have the right to animate things that should remain inanimate—is to overwhelm Barnes. He pulls the door shut behind him, leans against the wall.

“J? Make sure he knows that I’m here if he needs to talk to someone besides Steve.”

“Of course, Agent Barton.”

Clint walks away back to his living quarters thinking that Phil would be proud of him.

It’s been two weeks since Barnes’s arrival at the tower, and it’s been rather anticlimactic. Steve takes Barnes’s behavior at face value, seemingly content with pretending the last seventy years of Barnes’s life hasn’t happened—or at the least, left its scars. Tony rarely stays in the same room with Barnes; he’s never outright rude, just cautious.

Not like Clint blames him for that. Natasha hasn’t been back at the tower since the day Barnes came in from running. She claims she’s helping Phil and Fury rebuild SHIELD, which she probably is, but Clint knows there’s more to her avoidance than just loyalty for the organization. Bruce has engaged Barnes on multiple occasions, and it’s seemed to have helped Barnes integrate into the dynamic. Clint, however, has been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it does.

Clint’s sprawled on his couch and watching Dog Cops when JARVIS alerts him of a situation in the greenhouse on the terrace outside of Bruce’s living quarters. Clint remains in his place, staring absentmindedly at the television; if it’s that important, the AI can inform his creator or Steve. Unfortunately, JARVIS has other ideas. The TV screen goes black, and when JARVIS speaks again, his words are sharp.

“Agent Barton, there is a situation that I feel you must tend to in the greenhouse.”

“Why can’t Tony?”

“Because Mister Stark is no longer in the country, and before you ask, Captain Rogers is at the children’s hospital for his volunteering duties.”

“Fine, I’m going, I’m going. I better not have missed any of my show, Jar.”

If JARVIS could sigh, Clint is pretty sure that is exactly what he’d be doing right now. “I assure you, Agent Barton, it is an episode you have seen approximately thirty-five times in the last four months, so you are missing nothing.”

“Rewatches make you find things you don’t notice the first few times,” Clint protests through a wide yawn.

JARVIS stays silent, and Clint rolls his eyes but does what’s been requested of him. He steps through the doors to the greenhouse and stares around blankly at the massive amount of plants in their rows. Movement to his left catches his attention, and he glances that direction to see Bruce pressed against the wall, eyes staring over in the corner. Clint follows his gaze but sees nothing but leaves and stems. He makes sure Bruce is okay, ignores the way the man’s knuckles are white from the pressure required to keep his hands so flat against the wall, and makes his way through the flowering shrubs and vegetables.

Barnes soon comes into sight, sitting on his knees by the roses. A glint of sunlight reflects off the blades of the pruning shears in his hand, pointed end held out like a knife. Clint steps forward, not pausing even as Bruce makes a choking noise.

“Clint, what the hell are you doing?”

Clint ignores him and lowers himself to sit on the floor just out of reach of Barnes. Unless the other man moves in the blink of an eye, Clint should be safe. He soaks up the heat that seems to double the longer he stays still; finally, without looking at Barnes, he speaks.

“Hey there, Barnes. How’s gardening goin’? Oh, hey, doc, looks like the zucchini are ready. You gonna make some zucchini bread today? Maybe Barnes can help. It’s real simple, but Bruce here don’t let me help any more. He says I eat all the zucchini before he can get it in the batter. Dough? Whatever. Point is, if my trainwreck self can make zucchini bread that’s actually edible, so can you, and you’ll probably do a helluva lot better. Oh, cool, the tomatoes are green. You ever had fried green tomatoes, Barnes? They’re delicious. St—some people don’t think they can be considered healthy or a vegetable, but what do they know? I mean, they’re kinda right since tomatoes are a fruit, but...let’s not tell them. Their ego might not fit in the tower any longer.

“Hey, doc, mind quieting down a bit?” Clint calls over his shoulder at Bruce who’s alternating between whispering under his breath and yelling at Clint to get his ass away from the assassin. “You’re interrupting our conversation.”

“You shouldn’t—Clint, c’mon, get over here!”

“Nah, you know distance plays havoc on my hearing. It’s why my eyes are so sharp. Gotta make up for the deficiency. Hey, there ya are! Welcome back, Barnes.”

Barnes blinks a couple of times, slowly at first then three times in rapid succession, before he stares down at the scissor then up at Clint. A look of horror fills his face; he drops the shears and bolts through the rows of plants. Clint relaxes once his footsteps fade, lets go of the knife he’d started holding on to as soon as he saw Barnes in that eerie blankness. He turns at the sound of shuffling feet. Bruce is glaring down at him, eyes flashing green at the edges until he visibly gets control of himself.

“What the hell do you think you were doing? You could’ve gotten killed! Do you know how monumentally stupid that was? How do you expect it would’ve gone if I’d had to tell Steve, Tony, and Natasha that the Hulk killed Barnes because he’d gone into Winter Soldier mode and killed you because you decided to be an idiot and confront him? Because that’s what would have happened, and I don’t think any part of it would have gone well.”

“I’m fine, Bruce. I promise. I wouldn’t have done anything if I’d thought he’d hurt me.”

“Your sense of self-preservation leaves a lot to be desired, Clint.” Bruce sighs. “I’m going inside. And don’t think I’m keeping this stupid stunt of yours a secret. Maybe Natasha can kick some common sense into you.”

Clint grins unabashedly. “Doc, if it hasn’t happened yet, it ain’t gonna.”

But Bruce is already inside. Clint sighs, feels the adrenaline fading away. He lets out his breath in a heavy exhale. After a few minutes, he pushes himself to stand and runs a hand through his hair.

“Hey, JARVIS, where’s Barnes?”

“He is in his living quarters and has requested that he doesn’t want visitors.”

“Of course not. Tell him I’m giving him an hour, then I want some sign of life.”

Body thrumming and restless with leftovers of the last thirty minutes, Clint heads toward the gym, places his hand on the scanner, and takes a deep breath as the doors slide open with a soft hiss. The cavernous room beyond is dark, empty, just the way he likes it. His footsteps echo throughout the gym, and he closes his eyes in the peaceful atmosphere, relishes the quiet. The click of the lights flickering into life barely registers. Clint dusts his hands with chalk from the bin by the gymnastics rings, inhales all the way to the bottom of his belly, then steps up the enormous rock wall.

He loses himself in the tug and stretch of his muscles as he hauls his body steadily up the wall. The fact he's not wearing a safety harness or ropes only amplifies the sensation of freedom he feels; Clint is well aware that Natasha and Phil would be on his ass for “not taking safety seriously", but they just don't understand his fascination with relying on only brute strength to keep himself from falling to a messy death on the ground.

“Agent Barton, it has been an hour, and Sergeant Barnes is requesting contact. Shall I open a line of communication?”

“Yeah,” grunts Clint as he pulls himself to the top of the wall.

“I'm still alive. Where are you?”

“Gym, why?”

“Stay there.”

A loud beeping sounds, and Clint rolls his eyes at the fact that Barnes has pulled the AI equivalent of ending a phone call without manners.

“Yeah, sure, stay there, don't move. Too bad, Barnes, I'll leave if I want.”

But he stays, lowering down to the floor a little less steadily than he went up. Clint is halfway back up the wall when he hears the doors open, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Barnes just inside the gym. The man looks incredibly ragged and like he's liable to bolt if Clint so much as breathes the wrong way in his direction.

“You okay, man?”

Barnes nods jerkily; his gaze darts around the room, landing momentarily on Clint’s face before flitting away just as quickly. “You’re an idiot.”

“Seems to be the consensus for today, yeah.”

“You shouldn’t’a gotten so close.”

“Why not? I had faith in your ability and willingness to, you know, not kill me.”

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Barnes bursts out, face twisted up.

“Why not? It looks like I was right so—”

“Because I don’t deserve it! I don’t deserve your dumb faith and trust, none of ya’s, and I don’t deserve to live in this fancy tower with the few restrictions that Stark’s put on me.”

“Then what do you think you do deserve?”

“I deserve to be locked away for life because’a what I done.”

Barnes’s response is quiet, not particularly forceful, lost and almost tremulous in the expanse of quiet gymnasium. His eyes are bright under the fluorescent lights, and Clint swallows thickly, focuses on the wall in front of him. He knows that feeling all too well—the one that says you’re not worth the effort of saving, so just drown.

“Barnes… There is nothing that you did. You had no choice, no chance to protest against the shit that HYDRA made you do.” Clint taps the top ledge of the rock wall instead of slapping the small bell, not wanting to break the gravity of the conversation. “You were experimented on, tortured, and brainwashed. You were just the weapons, and weapons? They don’t get to decide what they do. That decision is only up to the ones wielding the weapon, pointing them at a target and saying ‘Go get ‘em, boy!’”

“Speakin’ from experience?”

Clint’s foot misses the rock, and it’s by pure instinct that his fingers tighten their grip on the handholds. He drags himself more securely onto the rocks; swallowing down the taste of bile in the back of his throat, he forces a grin over at Barnes.

“Somethin’ like that.” He pauses and examines the dark circles under Barnes’s eyes. “How much sleep have you gotten lately?”

“I’ve gotten about...a couple’a hours,” Barnes replies as he ambles over to spot Clint’s descent from the wall.

“When?”

“Day before last, I think.”

“All right, that’s it. Let’s go.”

“Go’? Go where?”

But he’s following Clint anyway, and that lights a small flicker of warmth in Clint’s chest. He wipes his hands off onto one of the towels hanging on the rack attached to the wall, enjoying the way sweat and clumped-up chalk disappears from his skin. He heads toward the elevator, hopes that Barnes is still trailing behind him.

“We’re going up to your quarters to watch trashy TV shows, stuff ourselves full of bad food, and then you’re gonna get some sleep.”

“Not if you’re gonna be there.”

“Dude,” sighs Clint, exasperated despite his best efforts. “You need sleep. You literally need sleep. You cannot function without it. Or so Phil and Nat say. But anyway. I promise to leave as soon as you actually conk out. Swear.”

The silence from Barnes lasts until after they’ve stopped in front of his door. He stares at the floor, hands stuffed into his pockets, while Clint leans against the frame and waits. Even if Barnes ends up saying no and sending Clint off to his own quarters, at least he’s considering Clint’s proposal which is more than Clint really anticipated.

“If you don’t, I’m telling Steve.”

“Deal!”

Clint knows he’s grinning, but he doesn’t care. He gestures toward the door, and Barnes rolls his eyes but pushes open the door, leading Clint into the barren space. Clint rummages through the freezer for the box of pizza bagels (he knows Barnes likes them, he’s seen the man eat them during movie night before) and arranges them on a large plate.

Once those are in the toaster oven, he digs around in the cabinets until he pulls out a couple bags of Doritos. Barnes has two cans of Coke in one hand, two beers in the other when Clint turns around. They make their way to the living room with their snacks, and Clint calls for JARVIS to cue up Dog Cops, from the beginning so Barnes isn’t missing anything. He doesn’t seem as engrossed or interested in the show as Clint is, but he’s not complaining and demanding that it gets shut off. So Clint is counting it as a win.

At the end of the third episode, Clint glances over to check if Barnes is still paying attention. He’s almost surprised to see Barnes sprawled out on the couch completely asleep. A half-empty bag of chips is resting along his thigh and the plate is on his belly, empty of bagels but full of crumbs, rising and falling in time with his breathing. Clint smiles slightly; the flickering light from the television casts shadows on Barnes’s face, outlines the sharp angles of his jaw and nose. Clint definitely does not debate whether or not he should throw broken pieces of nacho Doritos into the slight part of Barnes’s lips.

Being a spy for SHIELD certainly comes in handy sometimes; Clint manages to drag the bag of chips away without the plastic crinkling, and moving the plate off of Barnes’s stomach does nothing to the man ー he just sleeps on peacefully. Washing the plate turns out to be completely impossible unless he wants to wake Barnes, so Clint sets the dish in the sink and drops the bag into the trash. He really doesn’t want to tempt fate by trying to close the bag silently, and by the time Barnes wakes, the chips will have been sitting out too long to remain fresh.

The bedroom, when Clint goes in to grab a blanket for Barnes, looks completely untouched. There is nothing on the bedside tables or the shelves. The bed is made exactly the same as it was when Clint showed him to his living quarters. The only thing new in the box is a small stack of clothes—two pairs of jeans, four shirts, and two pairs of boxer-briefs—is on the floor by the closet, unsuccessfully attempting to hide the book bag. Clint sighs and heads toward the bathroom. A toothbrush and tube of toothpaste (and not even the good kind, what the hell, Barnes?) take up one corner of the countertop, and a bar of plain Ivory soap sits in a soap dish in the shower next to a bottle of two-in-one shampoo/conditioner.

“Hey, JARVIS? Where does Barnes usually sleep?"

“On the couch in the communal living room when Captain Rogers is around.”

“Has… has he even lived in here? What's his day like?”

“Captain Rogers comes in the morning so they can have breakfast together. Then Sergeant Barnes comes back to his quarters and sits on the couch until lunch, then the process repeats once more before dinner. After dinner, he resumes sitting until either he falls asleep for an average of two point three hours or Captain Rogers knocks on his door.”

“He just sits there? No TV, no music, nothing?”

“Correct.”

“Fuck." Clint groans and presses his palm to his eyes. “Steve doesn't know, does he?"

“No, Captain Rogers does not. It is Sergeant Barnes's wishes that no one, including and especially Captain Rogers, know anything beyond what he tells or shows them.”

“But you're telling me."

“Mister Stark has programmed me to perform a myriad of tasks, one of them being maintaining the privacy of the tower's inhabitants. However, one of Sergeant Barnes's guidelines to him continuing residence in the tower is that I am to alert someone if he is a danger to himself or others. Based on research of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and other conditions caused by traumatic experiences, I have concluded there is a high probability of Sergeant Barnes attempting to harm someone, or even himself, while he is in the midst of a flashback or an anxiety attack.”

“Okay, okay, that makes a lot of sense. But why not tell Steve? He's Barnes's best friend.”

“Because Sergeant Barnes has not made any attempts to injure, attack, or kill anyone, it was not my place. My guidelines for alerting someone is if the attempt is made or, based off of contextual clues, I find that an attempt is impending. It is not written into my safeguards to hypothesise potentials that may or may not happen.”

“But?"

“But you asked directly about Sergeant Barnes's lifestyle and well-being. I felt it prudent to be as upfront and honest with you as you were in your inquiries.”

“Ah. Okay. I can...I can handle this. Okay. Hey, sorry to do this, J-man, but can you, ya know, not tell Steve about this? Or anyone? I'll tell them if it comes to it, but let's honour what Sarge wants.”

“Of course, Agent Barton. Now, if you would like to honour the promise you made to Sergeant Barnes, I suggest you leave his quarters immediately.”

The hairs on the back of Clint's neck stand up, and his fingers itch for his bow. But he doesn't have it, so, against better judgement, he tiptoes silently down the hall back to the living room. Barnes's eyelids are flickering with the rapid movement of his eyes beneath, his body twitching almost manically, and a choked scream is building deep in his throat. Clint shivers at the unexpectedly low volume and the way it's filled with pain and terror. He ignores JARVIS's warnings to leave, instead sitting on the edge of the coffee table just out of reach.

“You are James Buchanan Barnes. You are safe in Stark Tower. No one’s here but you and me, buddy, you’re safe.”

Clint repeats this like a mantra, loudly enough that Barnes can maybe hear him but not startle him. Finally, the other man seems to calm. His scream dies off, leaves behind an echoing silence. He shudders all over once then lies completely still; Clint waits through a few more heartbeats.

“How’s his vitals, JARVIS?”

“They are returning to within reasonable levels.”

“Good. Gonna tattle on me?”

“Mister Stark is on his way now. If you wish to allow Sergeant Barnes to remain sleeping, you should head to the corridor.”

Clint stretches out the muscles in his back, joints twinging, and rises to his feet. Tony is half in the armour when Clint steps into the hall; a gauntlet covers one hand, and the chestplate protects his chest ー and the arc reactor ー from any potential impacts. His face is dark, cloudy with anger, and Clint stifles a sigh.

“When JARVIS tells you that you need to leave the very dangerous assassin's room for your safety, you need to do it. What would you have done if he flipped out and killed you? We would've gotten there too late to save your sorry ass.”

“Why is this the hot topic for today, fuck,” Clint groans.

“Because you keep doing stupid shit that could end up with you killed! If Barnes had lost control over himself, if he'd succeeded in murdering you because you're a dumbass, Natasha have made me figure out a way to bring you back to life just so she could kill you herself. Hell, I would bring you back to life just to kill you myself! What the Hell, Barton? Do you really have that much of a death wish?”

Clint grinds his teeth together in an attempt to keep his temper in check. Unfortunately, the words refuse to stay locked up. “He doesn't deserve to be alone!”

“What?” whispers Tony, head hearing back slightly.

“He…” In for a penny, in for a pound. “He doesn't deserve to be left alone with the memories of what he was forced to do.”

“He's not alone. He's got Steve, since Steve won't leave his damn side.”

Clint growls in frustration, flings his hands up into the air. “But does Steve ever make him talk? Does Steve make him sleep? Does Steve notice that Barnes is depriving himself of more than just the basic necessities? Or is Steve so damn happy to have his best pal, his Bucky, back that he's willing to overlook the fact that Barnes is not the same? He never will be, and he—he may say he wants to be alone so he can bottle this all up and pretend he's not dying a little more on the inside every fucking day, but he doesn't deserve it.”

Tony doesn't speak as Clint's teeth snap together with an audible clack. Clint is breathing heavily; the hall echoes in the sudden silence. Tony swallows, his throat working hard, but his mouth stays closed. All he does is raise a hand, hesitate, then clap Clint on the shoulder with a nod. Clint watches him disappear into the elevator, the doors sliding smoothly shut and obscuring Tony from view. Clint scrubs at his face with his hands, presses his fingers into the bottom of his brow bone.

With a shaky exhale, he stares at Barnes's door and worries at his lower lip. He can't leave the man now, not with the risk of Barnes waking up before he should. He needs sleep, and Clint is pretty sure that Barnes won't get the rest he requires if he wakes at any point and finds he's alone. So he sneaks back inside and crosses the living room, falling into the armchair by the window, and waits as Barnes continues to sleep.

To: Sir (02:30) I think I adopted another danger puppy…
From: Sir (02:35) Stay safe. The paperwork involved if you die is atrocious, and I don't quite feel up to filling it out.
From: Sir (02:36) Plus, I like you being alive. X

The sun is beginning to break over the horizon when Barnes stirs. Clint jerks to attention from the light doze he's been drifting in and out of for the past few hours, watches as Barnes sighs sleepily before suddenly freezing up. His head snaps to the right, and his expression turns almost murderous when he sees Clint still there.

“What the fuck, Barton.”

Clint shrugs. “You slept through the night.”

“You promised you'd leave once I was asleep.”

“Look, man, we could argue about the immorality of me breaking a promise that was stupid to make in the first place, or you could accept that you slept for almost six hours. Which you obviously needed. Now shut your mouth, go shower. We're going out.”

“I don't feel like it.”

“Cute how you think this is negotiable,” mutter Clint through a jaw-cracking yawn; he extends his legs as far as he can until the muscles seem to burn then relaxes into the chair. “Tough shit. Go.”

Barnes glares at him but finally relents. He nods succinctly, scrambles to his feet in a lack of grace that Clint hadn't ever seen before from him, and heads down the hall. The shower starts up a few seconds after the door snicks shut; Clint stretches once more then makes his way to the kitchen to start some coffee. The machine has just beeped its completion when the water in the bathroom shuts off. Clint pours coffee into two travelling mugs and leans against the counter, sipping at the drink, until Barnes appears in the doorframe. The dark jeans he's wearing are decent enough, but the long-sleeved shirt has definitely seen better days, especially in the left shoulder seam. Clint makes a mental note to ask Phil for help re-seaming.

The first place Clint takes Barnes is a diner for breakfast; Barnes hesitates, seemingly unsure of what he is or is not allowed to order, but when Clint asks for the largest breakfast platter the establishment has on the menu, Barnes seems to relax. He doesn't order as much as Clint—though if he's anything like Steve, he really should get more—but the meal he orders is sufficient enough for basic requirements, even for a watered-down super-soldier.

Once their food is consumed and bill paid, Clint leads Barnes down the block to a small thrift shop nestled between a bank and a Japanese takeaway restaurant. Barnes is no help as Clint gathers up old-fashioned handkerchiefs, a few shirts that are in decent enough shape for their age and somewhat timeless in design, and a pair of solid boots that are slightly creased on the outside but warm and intact on the inside. The old lady behind the counter promises to hold onto the bag until they come back, on the condition of getting a picture with “the great Hawkeye".

The department store Barnes follows Clint into next is brightly-lit, and staff members immediately offer smiles and assistance. Harvey, a young man who barely looks old enough to have a job, grabs up shirts and pants from the racks and ushers Barnes into a fitting room. Clint sits in a chair as Barnes exits the cubicle to show off outfits awkwardly. Thankfully, Harvey doesn't make a fuss about the scowl on Barnes's face or the way the man keeps looking toward the exit; he just gives opinions about what works for Barnes and what doesn't.

Trying on clothes doesn't take too long, so within the hour, Clint and Barnes are on the sidewalk with their purchases, including dozens of pairs of boxer-briefs and socks, being scheduled for delivery to the tower. Barnes looks like a… well, not quite like a new man, considering he won't get that damn expression off his face, but definitely better in a deep blue cotton V-neck that stretches enticingly across his broad chest and shoulders without coming off as too small. He's still wearing the same dark jeans from this morning, though, but Clint decides it isn't worth an argument, so he accepts defeat.

Unfortunately, the next store isn't as simple or friendly. The staff remains behind the counter as Barnes and Clint drift through the racks and tables of clothing, and Clint wonders if he actually sees one of the women mouthing something about not being able to make a bum look like a human instead of trash, no matter how much you dress it up. He is pretty sure that's what she says, especially when Barnes folds in on himself and refuses to look up from where he has his hands shoved into his pockets. Clint frowns, wants to comfort Barnes but can't find the right words.

A stray memory comes to the forefront of his brain, hazy and probably wrong, but he smiles to himself as he Yanks a belt off of a wall rack and guides Barns to the counter. The trash-talking woman stiffens, upper lip curling, and walks away. Her co-worker doesn't look pleased at being stuck handling the transaction, but at least she doesn't outright say anything derogatory. Clint finds perverse pleasure in seeing her eyes widen and jaw drop comically when he hands over the credit card connected to the Avengers fund. She glances up at Clint with awe.

“Sir, uh, there's a sale on slacks today, buy two and get the third pair half-off. And we have a new fragrance that just came in today that I, um, I believe you and your...partner here would enjoy.”

“Nah, my bum boyfriend likes smelling like trash.”

“Sir?”

“We’ll be going now. Can I have my credit card back, please, or are you intending to keep it as evidence that you met Hawkeye?”

Her cheeks turn a brilliant red, and her gaze drops to the counter as she passes the card to Clint. He flashes her a fake smile, wraps his fingers around Barnes's elbow, and steers him toward the door. The panicked whispering of the women follows them out onto the sidewalk, but Clint doesn't look back. He wonders if JARVIS can get an article published about the behaviour of the staff. Barnes's face has loosened a bit, looks less haunted now that he's not being faced with judgment from strangers. Thankfully, New Yorkers are self-absorbed, so Clint and Barnes standing in the centre of the walkway only gets them exasperated looks but nothing more.

After popping back into the thrift shop for their bag, the pair heads to a drugstore. Clint immediately turns toward the hygiene aisle and motions toward the shelves. Barnes stares blankly, eyes slightly widened in panic as his gaze roams over all of the options available. The sight takes Clint back a decade and a half, and he feels something tighten in his chest. He clears his throat.

“You can order this shit online. JARVIS can help you, but for now, we’ll get it here so you can figure out what scents you like.”

“You’re good at this. The whole…” He trails off, hand waving around in the air in an attempt to convey he’s at a loss for words sufficient enough to explain what he means.

“What, getting assassins acclimated to a life outside of their existence a la douchebag terrorist dicks?” Barnes snorts, and Clint counts it as a win. “Yeah, I did the same thing for Nat when she first defected to SHIELD from the Red Room. Unlike you, though, she pretended she knew what she was doing and didn’t need my help, like she was humouring me.”

That causes Barnes to shift his weight nervously, like he’s doing something wrong but isn’t quite sure what, and he darts a quick glance at Clint’s face. “Should I be doing that?” he asks slowly, and Clint shakes his head.

“Nah, man, this is easier. So much easier. At least this time I don’t have to navigate around a pride bigger than Russia, Australia, and Canada combined.”

Barnes’s lips twitch, and he reaches out for a bottle of shampoo on the shelf. He sniffs cautiously at the scent, makes a face, then sniffs again. Apparently, the scent isn’t too bad because he doesn’t put it back. Once he gets a conditioner in a matching aroma (“Yes, Barnes, get conditioner, jeez, it’ll do you a world of good.”), they move on to body wash and shaving supplies.

The trip back to the tower is quiet, and Clint repeatedly sneaks peeks at the expression on Barnes’s face as he stares down at his bag of purchases; it’s one of wonder, tentative happiness, and pride, just a little, at having succeeded at something.

The clothes they bought are hanging in the living room when they step inside. Clint sits on the couch while Barnes puts away his hygiene products. They start unloading the clothes, tossing the hangers to the side, and Clint separates the items into piles. A knock on the door causes Barnes to startle, drop the pair of slacks he was in the process of folding; Clint ignores Barnes’s reaction and continues to sort, even as the door opens.

“Hey, you guys look like you been busy.”

Clint tosses a no duh look in Steve’s direction before placing the last button-down on the ‘closet’ pile. “Yeah, figured if he was gonna live in the modern age, he should look it.” He scrutinises Steve’s face, the bags under his eyes, the way his shoulders are drooping even though he’s in the same room as his best friend.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just...been a long few days. Between hunting down HYDRA rats who scattered after DC, the volunteering, and the meetings with Phil and Maria, I’m just tired.”

Clint nods sagely, chuckling at the way Steve rolls his eyes. “Okay, Barnes, I’m outta here. Lemme know if you need me again.”

To: Sir (13:09) Yup definitely adopted another one. u need to come back and stop me
From: Sir (13:17) I really wish I could.
To: Sir (13:17) I kno i kno. shield needs u
From: Sir (13:19) Soon, I promise. X

The gymnasium is quiet, mostly dark, and Clint watches as stray dust motes swirl in the feeble light. Tony is still out of the country, Steve and Barnes are...wherever, Bruce is probably sleeping or in his lab, and Thor is off doing whatever he does when he’s not in the tower. Natasha hasn’t been back in weeks; she sent a text earlier after Phil’s messages, saying only I’m not calling him my brother. Clint is certain that’s her way of approving of Clint’s attempts to help Barnes integrate into civilian life. He tosses an M&M into the air, catches it in his mouth, and chomps down on it, still lost in thought.

“Barton?”

Clint nearly falls off the rafter he’s sprawled across at the shock of suddenly hearing Barnes’s timid voice echoing through the gym. Thankfully, he manages to keep his balance and sits up. Barnes looks so small from this distance and the way he’s hunched in on himself. Clint stares at him, idly pondering if Barnes is just waiting to be punished for daring to seek Clint out without permission.

“Up here,” he calls after a few silent minutes, and Barnes stops in the process of exiting the gym.

“Uh, hi. Can… can I come up?”

“Sure, man. I don’t have a monopoly on gym rafters.”

Barnes stands back until Clint shoves the rope down, then climbs deftly up and hauls himself onto the rafter. They sit in a silence that should be uncomfortable but really isn't, until Clint crinkles the M&M bag at Barnes. Barnes gives it a speculative look, assessing, and Clint knows better, he absolutely does, but that doesn't stop him from rolling his eyes at Barnes's hesitance. He pours a handful into the palm of his hand then shoves them all in his mouth unceremoniously. When he doesn't immediately fall twenty feet to the floor and die from poison, Barnes accepts the offering of candy. He chews a single piece slowly, and Clint grins at the way Barnes's face lights up at the crunch and explosion of sweet chocolate on his tongue. He has far less grace when he eats the rest in one quick go.

“Steve's gonna apologise to you tomorrow.”

“The fuck? Why?”

“He feels guilty.” Barnes shrugs. “Evidently he feels it was his responsibility to take me shoppin’, but he'd figured Stark would help me learn how to use JARVIS to order things online.”

“Well, he can quit that shit. We've all been busy, had a lot on our minds. Besides, he should know ordering online is great and all,your but it only works properly if you're getting something you know you like.”

Nothing more is said for a long couple of minutes. Then Barnes exhales shakily and reaches a hand out for more candy.

“I didn't remember how to like things. I tried for Steve's same to, ya know, actually like the things he was givin’ me, but… I didn't know how.”

“Let me guess. Felt like you couldn't trust yourself to have the right-for-you feelings toward something? Like anything you might have liked could've been a byproduct of your past or your desire to be you again that you could have misinterpreted the feelings?”

“Exactly. Jus’ like that.”

“Yeah, that's the result of your life being taken out of your hands.”

“You understand.”

It isn't a question, not in the strictest definition of the word, but is also is a question. A statement designed to elicit a response, an explanation, but not so bold as to presume rights to an answer. Clint sighs, dumping the rest of the M&Ms into his mouth.

“His name was Loki. Adopted brother to Thor, uh, God of Thunder and fellow Avenger. Thor is cool, you might meet him soon. Loki? Not so much.” Clint stares at the far wall, at the ring of light that faintly illuminates a cone of space from ceiling to floor. “He had this, this scepter with some fucked thing called the Tesseract. We—I was guarding some scientists who were trying to figure out a way to actually use the Tesseract for good, unending energy or some shit. Figured out the door they were opening to other worlds meant other worlds could come to ours.

“Loki did. He came and he conquered. Or tried to, anyway. He got… he got me. The scepter, or well, the Tesseract took away my control and left me powerless to do anything but what Loki wanted. He made me kill. Which, okay, to be fair, SHIELD uses me to kill, too, but… at least with SHIELD, I get the illusion of choice of which mission I take. But…

“Loki, he made me kill people I work with. People I’ve known since I joined SHIELD, people I’ve trained. I damn near killed Nat. I, uh, I was the reason Phil, my handler, was murdered. If I’d been stronger, you know, he wouldn’t have been in the position of facing down a psychopathic demigod on his own.

“So Phil died, something like seventy SHIELD agents died, and far too many people down on the streets died because Loki brought in an army or whatever from another dimension? World? Whatever. The Chitauri. That’s what they were called. It wasn’t as long as you, but that time that I was under Loki’s control fucked up my entire world for so damn long. Hell, I still struggle sometimes. Still got some things that trigger memories.”

Barnes stays quiet, doesn’t mention how Clint’s voice has cracked during his explanation. Clint jolts when Barnes’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Someone told me once that when you’re used as a weapon, your choices are taken outta your hands. A weapons doesn’t get to choose what they do. That decision is only up to the ones wielding the weapon, pointin’ them at a target and saying ‘Go get ‘em, boy.’”

Clint lets out a strangled laugh, swiping at his cheeks while Barnes pretends Clint isn’t crying. “Yeah? That someone sounds smart.”

“He’s pretty smart. Seems to understand more than he pretends, ‘cause he likes to hide it. He’s kinda a trainwreck, though. He really likes to hide up in rafters, climb higher than is prob’ly advisable, and hangs out with me even after he promises to leave once I’m asleep.”

“I see better from a distance,” Clint protests, grins despite himself.

“I dunno, seems like you see just fine up close.”

Barnes smiles slightly, just a small uptick to his lips, and Clint can’t speak. Whatever Barnes is about to say is interrupted by the loud blaring of the Assemble alarm. Barnes sighs, looks away from Clint, then shifts so he can slide down the rope. Clint follows close behind, ignores the shiver that runs down his spine when Barnes wraps his hands around Clint’s waist to help him off the rope. Clint swallows thickly and throws a messy salute before rushing off to gear up. Barnes is most likely heading into lockdown in his quarters, which… Good. Definitely good.

The mission is basically a bust. Clint gets a high vantage point and settles in to pick off the enemies, but it’s mostly handled by the others minus Bruce, who stays in the Quinjet until he can help the medics handle the injuries. And he claims he’s not a medical doctor, Clint thinks with a smirk as he gathers up his quiver. Only three arrows have been loosed during the entire, anticlimactic fight, and even those weren’t for much beyond fun. The Iron Man suit slows as it nears, and Clint takes a flying leap off the edge of the building.

Tony catches him with one arm; Clint laughs aloud when the suit slides into a barrel roll. Tony straightens up before either of them can get too nauseous from the manoeuvre, and when they land, Steve doesn’t even give them a disparaging glare like he normally does when Clint and-or Tony pull a “stupid stunt” like that. In fact, the man is grinning. Barnes’s reappearance really has changed things, apparently.

After that discussion in the rafters, Barnes becomes more bold in his attempts to hang out with Clint. More often than not, they’re in the gym, Clint teaching Barnes how to shoot with an actual bow instead of a crossbow that Barnes insists he’s used before, or in either of their living quarters, watching Dog Cops and gorging on junk food as they argue over which is the better character and who has a more compelling story arc. Clint doesn’t talk as often as he’d like to Phil; the last time he does, it’s only for Phil to tell him that working on new aliases for Clint and Natasha is slow-going.

“You both are well-known now, after Natasha leaked the files. It’s going to take a few more weeks, Barton. I’m sorry, I know you want to be in the field again.”

Clint refuses to acknowledge the twinge of guilt in his gut. Being back in the field used to be his only goal, but now… he can’t imagine not having the chance to spend time with Barnes at any and all hours of the night or day. So he pushes away the guilt and shame, shoves them into a box in the back of his mind, and pretends he’s got a handle on his life.

The heat in the greenhouse is sweltering, humid, and the smell of soil and flowers is oddly relaxing; Barnes has become Bucky, is more comfortable in the skin of who he used to be even if it doesn’t fit quite right. He sits five feet away pruning a blackberry bush while Clint leans against the glass wall, head back and skin soaking up the warmth of the sun. It’s been five months since Barnes came in from hunting down HYDRA, and he seems better.

What his therapists haven’t been able to help with, Tony’s B.A.R.F. system does. Barnes sleeps more regularly now, even chooses meals during dinner once a week. He smiles quicker, doesn’t have as many nightmares or flashbacks, and makes jokes that don’t cause everyone else to recoil in disgust and horror or worry about his well-being.

Bucky sets the shears back in the tub of gardening tools that Bruce leaves by the door and makes his way through the plants to sit next to Clint. There is nothing but quiet between them, and Clint relishes it. It’s what he likes about being around Bucky. There’s never an urge to fill any silences, to actually talk to each other about anything of importance. They can just...be.

And now that Bucky is able to joke around and laugh freely, the world seems a bit more right, less off-centre; Clint looks at Bucky from the corner of his eye as Bucky is telling a story from when he and Steve were kids, and he can’t help but smile at the way the other man’s face is relaxed and he no longer looks so haunted by his past.

Clint closes his eyes and imagines seeing a scrawny Steve being hauled off the ground by a uniform-wearing Bucky the night before he shipped out, the envisioned indignation on Steve’s face nearly enough to make Clint laugh. His thoughts screech to a halt with the sudden pressure of a warm mouth against his own, the lips chapped and plush and so damn enticing. When Bucky pulls away, Clint stays completely still, eyes shut, and brain unable to form coherent thoughts. His eyes finally flutter open, and his mouth opens and closes a couple times before he’s able to stutter out a “Wha?”

Bucky’s cheeks are red, but he meets Clint’s gaze head-on. “At first, I, uh, I couldn’t really stand you. I mean, you were suddenly in my life, and you didn’t seem scared of me. You were…kind, especially that first day. With my bag then the tour of the place. And-and you understood what I was going through, and you didn’t make me feel worse about what I’d done. You made me feel better which is such a shitty way of puttin’ it, but you did. I hated that you wouldn’t let me pretend.

“Then you brought me back from the memories when I was here with Bruce, and you stayed while I was asleep. I couldn’t even be mad that you broke that promise, ya know? You knew what I needed even when I said I didn’t want it. You’ve done so much to help me, get me back to steady ground.” He shrugs. “Is it really a surprise that I’m in—feelin’ something for you? Dunno, just thought maybe you felt somethin’, too.”

Clint continues staring, and something of the wants that Clint’s kept hidden must show on his face because Bucky doesn’t hesitate; he kisses him again. Clint finds himself kissing back, tentatively at first then with more enthusiasm. All he can think about is the taste of Bucky’s lips, the fact that there’s too much space between them, and he pushes closer, cups Bucky’s jaw with one hand. Cool metal against his hipbone causes him to squirm, and Bucky groans into the kiss and tug Clint onto his lap. Clint shifts, grinding against Bucky, moaning aloud at the sparks that run up his spine. Bucky has just gotten one hand up Clint’s shirt, splayed across Clint’s back, and the other hand between them and fiddling with the button on Clint’s jeans, when a ringtone sounds loudly.

Clint jerks backwards when he recognizes it, the only person who has that song set is Phil—oh fuck, Phil…—and his head cracks against the glass walls. He’s breathing heavily, unsteadily, and he stares at Bucky with wide eyes and growing shame and guilt before he scrambles to his feet. He trips over the water hose strips through the aisle as he runs blindly toward the door. The last thing he hears before he darts inside is Bucky calling his name, sounding more lost and confused than Clint has heard him in a long time.