Chapter Text
Clint Barton is not having the best morning. As far as mornings go, this is a solid C minus, firstly because he knocked one of his hearing aids off his dresser and had to go crawling under his bed to retrieve it, but mostly because the milk in his refrigerator had gone off so he had to resort to black coffee and dry cereal. Oh, and he’d also slept through his alarm and now he’s late. His own salvation is a) he hadn’t actually run out of coffee and cereal, and b) the fact it’s just a weekly meeting that he’s late for, not an actual Avengers alert.
His phone rings, vibrating with a vengeance as he’s scrambling out of his car outside the mansion. The gravel of the sweeping driveway crunches under his sneakers and he shoves the door closed with his hip, going to the back to get his bow and quiver out. He ignores his phone, getting his equipment and jogging past the row of assembled cars, resisting the urge to knock over the motorbike that’s parked right by the front door.
His phone stops vibrating as he’s thumbing in his print and promptly starts again as he lifts his sunglasses for the retinal scan. Shit. That’s going to be either Sam, Steve, or Sharon: the holy trinity of people who are technically allowed to boss the Avengers about, AKA the few people that Clint will actually take orders from, though that’s pretty hit and miss.
“I’m coming!” he insists, rubbing his eyes when the scan is done, the front door of the mansion opening with a thunk of machinery and locks. “Jeez, I’m like, five minutes late.”
“Welcome to Avengers Headquarters, Hawkeye,” Jarvis says coolly from the speakers that even Clint has difficulty spotting. “You are twenty-eight minutes late for the weekly team meeting.”
“Whatever,” Clint says as the door shuts behind him, but he runs down the corridor anyway, all the way past the communal kitchen and lounge, past the gym and the second staircase and down to the meeting room. His phone starts ringing again even as he shoulders the door open, and he comes face to face with a room full of Avengers.
“So, who had twenty-eight minutes?” Tony Stark says, making a show of looking at his watch. He’s sitting back in a chair with his feet on the table, a screwdriver in each hand.
“I had thirty-two,” Natasha says from next to him.
“Twenty-one,” Sharon says, standing at the front next to Sam, her arms folded across her chest.
“Me,” says Bruce. “I had twenty six and a half, is that closest?”
“That’s enough,” Sam says, taking his phone down from his ear and thumbing the screen. Clint’s phone stops buzzing against his thigh, which just seems to underscore Sam’s disappointment. “We have one meeting a week, Clint. Can’t you get here on time?”
“Or just not show up at all?” Barnes suggests. He’s sitting in a chair in front of Sam and Sharon, his phone held to his ear. He grins when Sharon reaches forwards to push the back of his head in gentle admonishment. “He’s still not picking up.”
Clint glares at him. “I’m here, why would I pick up?”
Barnes glares right back. “Why the fuck would I call you? I don’t care if you’re here or not,” he says, then speaks into the phone. “Hey Stevie, I know I’m only a lowly Avenger and you’re the big cheese mister SHIELD boss now, but golly I sure would appreciate it if you'd pick up your fucking phone,” he says, then hangs up.
“How come I get told off for being disrespectful and you don't?” Tony asks, sounding more intrigued than indignant.
“It’s a Cap thing,” Barnes says, and Clint resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Once you’ve been Captain America, you get to be an asshole to the other Captain Americas. Perk of the job.”
Sam opens his mouth as if to object and then closes it and shrugs, with a clear ‘well, he’s not wrong,’ expression. Ugh. Is Clint the only Avenger who hasn’t had a go at being Captain America? Not that he wants to: Steve would have to die again in some terrible accident that also incapacitated Barnes, Wilson and Stark before Clint ever even considered being in line.
Sharon would make a pretty good Cap, actually. Clint mentally adds her to the queue, ahead of him, Barnes and Stark but behind Wilson.
“Okay, then we assume that Commander Rogers is still in Berlin,” Sharon says, with a barely controlled eye-roll that clearly screams, ‘I am not micromanaging this mission because technically he’s my boss but I bet you I could have done a better job.’ It’s an expression she wears a lot when talking about Steve being on mission, actually. “He did say he’d not be coming back until he’d managed to get a decent deal out of the Security Council. Barnes, keep your phone on in case he calls you back. Clint, sit down.”
He looks about and curses mentally because the only free seat is next to Barnes. Great. He contemplates perching on the arm of Wanda’s chair or on the windowsill, but Barnes looks up from where he’s swapped his phone for picking at his nails with a pocketknife like some ridiculous assassin cliche. His gaze is tempered with a challenge, like he knows what Clint is thinking.
“Alright, now we’re all actually present and accounted for,” Sam says as Clint edges past Wanda and Pietro to drop into the chair next to Barnes. He swings his bow around, nearly clocking Barnes in the face as he slides it onto the table. Barnes scowls but doesn't say anything, because Sharon is already throwing up a hologram and Sam is explaining how the warehouse they’ve been surveying is in fact an AIM technology storage site.
Clint sighs, propping his head on his fist. He looks at Nat across the table, rolling his eyes. She blinks back at him, her microexpression somewhere between ‘behave’ and ‘I know.’ He offers her a tired smile and she quietly returns it before her eyes flick to Barnes. He mouths something across at her behind his hand and her mouth twitches, which is like Natasha’s version of laughing in the middle of the meeting.
Clint re-evaluates the morning as a D. No Steve, plus Barnes being an asshole? He likes to think that in his twenty-seven years he’s grown and matured and has learned how to work effectively with a team. However, twenty-seven years is not enough time to learn to be comfortable with Barnes flirting with Natasha right under his nose. Barnes had his chance with Nat fifty years ago. He needs to move the fuck on.
He pays zero attention to the rest of the meeting - something he’ll undoubtedly get chewed out over later, seeing as Sam is channeling full Steve today - and leaves the moment he’s allowed. He’s gonna go back to his apartment and go back to bed. Maybe play some Crash Bandicoot on his Playstation that’s held together with duct tape and a prayer.
“I don’t see why you won’t move in,” a voice rings out behind him as he’s trying to tap in his code to get out of the front door. “Then you wouldn’t be late for every meeting.”
Clint huffs out a laugh, turning to face Sharon. “I told you. If someone attacks the Mansion, you need Avengers to be not living here so they can come and rescue you.”
“Your apartment isn’t secure,” she says.
“Then you guys can come and rescue me if anything happens,” he says, grinning at her. “I make a real cute damsel in distress.”
She just stares at him, arms folded across her chest. Ugh, Sam would have laughed. Even Steve would have smiled a little. Sharon is just no fun some days.
He sighs. “Is there something you wanted or are you just here to tell me that you’re not mad, just disappointed?”
“If Steve isn’t back in two days, I want you to go and extract the SHIELD support team,” she says without preamble.
Clint frowns. “Can you actually tell me what to do? I know we all kind of joke about it, but is that officially allowed?”
“Hawkeye,” Sharon says with the air of someone who doesn't really like children trying to explain something to a toddler. “As a SHIELD-sanctioned team, the Avengers technically fall under ultimate command of SHIELD. As your SHIELD liaison I have the authority to request members of the Avengers - technically a specialised SHIELD team - to assist on SHIELD missions. I am asking you to go and extract a SHIELD team in forty-eight hours’ time. Captain Wilson, your CO, has signed off on the mission.”
Ugh, if Cap has signed off on the mission then there’s no avoiding it. And if Sharon has already gone and asked Cap for permission then this means it's serious because she's made sure Clint can't wiggle out of it. And… that seems like a lot of effort to go to for the three agents that Steve has with him in Berlin.
Clint takes a moment to think, slowly putting the pieces together.
“So if you've got enough rank to shanghai me for a mission, does that mean you have enough rank to extract the Commander of SHIELD from an overrunning mission?”
“Don’t start acting smart,” she says tightly. Wow, maybe she is actually worried about Steve and not just annoyed at him.
Clint grins. Man he loves it when he manages to figure out the spy games. “You’re not technically allowed to extract Steve, are you? So you’re sending me to get the support team but it really means I’m going to get him.”
Sharon presses her lips together hard. “If anyone asks-”
“I know nothing and I’m going to extract the SHIELD team,” Clint says, and mock salutes her. “Yes, boss.”
“Can you please not be a smartass for once?”
“Not liking the odds,” Clint says, then something occurs to him. “Hey, why did you ask me? Why not Barnes?”
It’s meant to be a casual question but he thinks it might have come out a little bitter, the way Sharon looks at him. “Because Steve will be pissed off that I’ve interfered and you’re the only one who will outstubborn him,” she says. “Barnes would go with every intention of extracting the support team-”
“But Steve would bat his eyelashes and get his own way, gottit,” Clint says. “Why don’t you go? He listens to you.”
Sharon sighs. “Were you not at that meeting? We’ve got an AIM facility to shut down and a bioweapon to track, contain and neutralise. It’s going to take the Avengers and some serious SHIELD personnel, which means I have to get someone to assemble a STRIKE team who can actually liaise with the Avengers on short notice, and that’s on top of sorting Cap out a new photonic shield because he broke the last one-”
“Okay, I get it, I’m sorry,” he says, because Sharon is looking harried and Clint knows she’ll run herself into the ground to get a mission done properly. Steve being away for so long is probably making it worse.
“Two days,” she says, then looks at her phone as it starts to beep. She nods at Clint then walks away, answering the phone as she does. “Director Hill, yes. Yes, the Avengers have been briefed-”
He finally gets his code in correctly and ducks outside the moment the heavy oak doors are unlocked, trudging over to his car. The mansion looms behind him, the countless windows staring him out like so many judgemental eyes. He slams the door behind him and is about to drive off when he sees the other non-resident Avengers leave the building; Barnes and Nat walk out side by side. Clint’s grip on the steering wheel tightens as he watches them, noticing how close they stand as they chat, the way Nat leans in to kiss Barnes’ cheek before he straddles his stupid motorbike. It’s Barnes’ smile that really gets to him though, that roguish grin that makes him look undeniably handsome. It’s the only time he does look vaguely good, Clint thinks uncharitably. The rest of the time he looks like an angry wet cat with greasy hair. No, actually, that’s unfair to cats-
Clint stops trying to compare Barnes to unfortunate bedraggled animals as the man in question pulls on his helmet and drives away. Feeling petty, he gives Barnes the finger and then winces as Nat looks right at him and catches him doing it.
“Great,” he mutters as she looks around and then starts walking towards him. She climbs into the passenger seat and just raises an eyebrow at him.
“I’m going home to go to bed,” he says. “Are you joining me?”
She ignores him. “IHOP. Cheap breakfast foods to go, right now.”
“Nat,” he groans.
“Now,” she says. “You swear at me, you buy me breakfast.”
“I wasn’t swearing at you, I was swearing at Barnes.”
Nat sighs, pulls her sunglasses on. “You know that you two would get on if you stopped hating each other for literally no reason.”
“I have my reasons,” Clint says, and then concedes and turns the ignition, mostly because he doesn’t want Nat to start talking about how great Barnes is. “Alright your majesty, IHOP it is.”
“He just gives me shit every opportunity he can,” Clint says, spearing a blueberry with his fork. “Like even if I’ve not said anything-”
“You do the same to him,” Nat says, sounding bored. They’re actually in IHOP for once instead of going through the drive-through, though Clint has to admit it’s not the worst place in the world. The staff seem so unflappable in that working-for-a-chain-corporation way that they aren’t bothered by the presence of two Avengers all. Maybe they’ve just not been recognised; Nat has that quality where no-one ever seems to be able to say for certain that she’s the Black Window, and Clint just doesn’t get recognised, ever.
“I do not,” Clint argues.
Nat sips at her coffee. “Believe it or not, I didn’t bring you to breakfast so you could bitch about James.”
“I’m paying, you didn’t bring me anywhere.”
“I bought you here so I could ask why Sharon wanted you.”
Clint frowns. “You don’t already know?”
“Oh I know. I just want to see if you know the same things that I know.”
“Nat, could you maybe not be quite so obvious that you’re tapping me for information? Christ, a little prep would go a long way before you go ahead and fuck me.”
She looks mildly impressed. “Nice metaphor,” she says. “But I’m not trying to get you in trouble or hurt. I’m curious.”
“I don’t think you’re trying to get me in trouble, it just happens,” he grumbles, shoving more pancake in his mouth. It’s mostly because he’s hungry but he’s learned over the years that gross table manners are a surefire way to distract someone from the fact he’s not telling the whole truth. “I gotta go fetch Sharon’s team back from Berlin.”
Nat looks at him with mild distaste, then nods. “That’s what I heard,” she says, then glances at her phone. “I’ve got to go, I’m meeting James for lunch.”
Clint scowls as she slides out of the booth. “Cold, Nat.”
“A girl’s gotta eat,” she says, and leans over and kisses his cheek. “Be good.”
“Tell Barnes I said fuck you,” Clint says as she heads out, which does nothing but get him reproving looks from the old couple at the next table over. Great. He knew he should have just gone home and gone to bed: today officially fails and it’s not even eleven.
Forty-five hours later and Clint finds himself somewhere he didn’t actually think he’d end up: in the middle of a bustling SHIELD hangar, strapped into the cockpit of a quinjet and plotting in a flight path to Berlin. Sharon is standing behind him, leaning on the empty co-pilot’s chair and going over the mission briefing again.
“I got it, Sharon,” Clint says. “I’m not actually an idiot, most of the time.”
“I know,” she says. “I’m just.” She doesn’t finish and Clint can only guess at what the rest of the sentence would be. Worried? Annoyed? Maybe both? Clint’s not worried at all; if any other team member had gone over on a mission and hadn’t picked up the phone in three days then yeah, but this is Steve . Steve is literally in charge of SHIELD and the Avengers by proxy, and tends to operate on a ‘I’m in charge, I do what I want,’ sort of policy. At least he’s honest about it. Clint swears if it weren’t for Maria Hill being second in command, Steve would have no hope of running SHIELD like an intelligence agency as opposed to an army.
“Here,” she says, and hands him a pager. “Check in when you land and when you make contact with the team.”
“With the team, or the team?” Clint asks, adding air quotes around the second option.
“Both,” she says. “I’m betting he’s gotten annoyed with his SHIELD detail and ditched them for some reason.”
“Are they not picking up either?”
“No,” Sharon says. “But if Commander Rogers has told them to go off the grid, they’ll have done that.”
“Remarkably clandestine for Steve.”
“Remarkable that you used that word correctly.”
“Whatever,” Clint says, flipping switches to charge the engines. “Okay, you better hop off. I’m taking off in five, gonna go clandestine the hell out of Berlin.”
Sharon closes her eyes for a second, then just shakes her head and climbs out of the jet. He bites down on a grin, focussing on getting the jet fired up. In front of him, SHIELD ground crew are waving batons on at him like he actually needs their help. Whatever, if they don’t move out of the way, that’s on them.
It feels good to be on mission, he thinks as the engines roar to life, rumbling steady underneath him. He can prove to Sharon that he’s competent, go and find Steve and get out of the way of Nat and Barnes for a while. And he might even stop off for a currywurst or three while in Berlin. That’s wins all around.
And of course, nothing goes to plan.
He gets to Berlin and immediately has a standoff with the German equivalent of SHIELD who want him to fill in insane amounts of paperwork and hand over his weapons for inspection. He dodges 99% of the paperwork by pulling Avenger rank and makes it very clear that no one touches his bow. After that, he steps out into the sweltering heat of Berlin in mid-June and realises he’s left his goddamn sunglasses on the quinjet, and retrieving them would mean more paperwork and arguing.
On top of all that, he quickly finds that there is absolutely zero trace of Steve or the support team. He checks all of the safehouses and designated meeting points that Sharon told him were on Steve’s mission itinerary and comes up with squat. One of the designated SHIELD hotel rooms looks like it’s had someone in recently- sheets out of place, used towel in the bottom of the bath, glasses of half drunk water on the side, but the air inside feels stale and the water has flecks of dust swimming around on top.
He’s got a bad feeling about this.
Bad feeling or not, he doesn’t want to call Sharon or Sam or anyone until he’s definitely sure Steve is missing. Insead, he doubles back into the centre of the city, mingling with the tourists and maybe stopping to buy ice cream, then calls Nat. She picks up just as he’s trying to calculate the time difference, wondering if he’ll have pissed her off by calling her at 3am or something. Ugh. Math.
“Hello, Clint,” she says, and to his relief she doesn’t sound pissed off at all. In fact, she sounds quite happy to hear from him and that does his ego the world of good. He’s not exactly missed her since their breakfast date but it’s always nice to be wanted.
“Nat!” he says, trying to lick melting vanilla-raspberry off his knuckles. “I need an excuse to go into WSC headquarters.”
“Why?”
“A hunch,” he says, stepping neatly out of the way of a bicycle, looking across to the nearest U-Bahn station. “I just need to get into the building to maybe not scan the personnel lists.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Go in and ask to have the most up-to-date approved Avengers’ flight paths. They can only be collected in person and you’ve got authority to ask for them. Just say that you landed in Berlin because you had an issue with the quinjet that Stark is fixing remotely and you want to check routes home. Tell them you’re six hours overdue already and you’re trying to find a shortcut before you get in any more trouble, they’ll believe that of you.”
“You’re brilliant, did I ever tell you that?”
“Several times,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “It bears repeating though.”
He can’t help but smile back. This is so achingly familiar and just them . The easy banter, the teasing. It makes him yearn for the days where the banter and teasing were a prelude to more . He takes a deep breath. “Nat,” he begins and then stops dead because he can hear another voice on Nat’s end of the line, a depressingly familiar deep-rough voice asking her if she wants another glass of wine.
His smile vanishes and he stops right in the middle of the street, causing someone to bump into his back. “Are you with Barnes right now?” he asks incredulously, mouthing ‘sorry’ at the person who he collided with then wincing because come on, he knows what that is in German. He could at least make an effort not to be an complete asshole tourist.
“Clint,” she sighs.
“No,” he says. “You’re better than that asshole. Jesus, Nat. You’re driving me crazy.”
“You have no say in who I hang out with,” she says.
“Oh yeah. Hanging out, is that what the kids call it?”
“Stop acting like a child,” she says. “World Security Council, Clint. You’re on mission.”
And she hangs up on him. Clint is left in the middle of a Berlin street, gaping at his phone. His annoyance at Barnes is coalescing into a nasty sick hatred, right in the pit of his gut. Honestly, Clint’s life would be a thousand percent easier if Steve had never rescued Barnes. Well, maybe he could have rescued him from Hydra, Clint isn’t a monster, but maybe Steve should have held off on realigning Barnes’ brain by smashing a cosmic cube into his face. Clint’s problems pretty much started the moment that bastard got his memories back.
He shoves the thought away, knowing distantly that it’s easier to just hate Barnes than really think about why. Anyway, Nat’s right. He’s on mission, which means he needs to finish his ice cream, get a train across the city and then bullshit a meeting with the WSC.
He proves he can multitask by simultaneously demolishing the rest of his ice cream and using his phone to ping the WSC with his location, giving them a heads-up that he’s in the vicinity. They tend to get pissy when Avengers turn up unannounced and Clint is showing up after they’ve hosted Commander Rogers for a week, and even if Commander Rogers is a goddamn professional, his soft spot for the Avengers is a mile wide and it frustrates the powers that be endlessly.
Clint still wishes that he’d been in the meeting where the WSC had been told that Fury’s replacement would be Steve goddamn Rogers. He bets there was tears.
He mentally shakes himself to get his head back in the game. Nat was right about one thing; he’s on mission and he has a feeling that if he doesn’t track down Steve goddamn Rogers soon, there will be more than tears.
He moseys around and acts like a tourist by buying more ice cream and taking blurry cellphone photos of the Brandenburg gate until he gets a call from the WSC a few hours later, requesting that he confirm his position in Berlin. Nosey bastards. He plays along though, acting like he’s fucked up and is in dire need of their help. They go through the predictable stages of the disinterested ‘you are SHIELD’s problem, not ours’ to a smug ‘well we suppose, if you ask nicely,’ to a impatient ‘oh for god’s sake who let Hawkeye out unattended again, come and get your goddamn flight plans.’
They tell him they can’t possibly find anyone to meet him until tomorrow morning, which he argues about and then accepts, figuring that he can use the remaining time to do some digging of his own. Hopefully he’ll be able to find a lead on Cap - dammit, Commander Rogers - before he has to even step foot in the WSC.
By the time the next morning rolls around, he’s slept for four hours and is starting to get concerned. Locals say that they saw Rogers leaving the WSC building days ago, and there’s Instagram proof to back the story up. The hotel remains undisturbed and none of the Avengers or SHIELD frequencies have been used within the city.
Resigned to having to deal with bureaucracy, he heads into the WSC with an ‘oops I fucked up’ attitude and a lot of charm. He’s not above using flirting to get what he wants - it’s only when he’s actually trying to flirt that things tend to go disastrously wrong. As it stands, whatever he does manages to get him clearance to enter the building with his phone, and the phone number of the agent manning the front desk, which isn’t half bad. He might even call the number if he manages to get this mess with Steve sorted in the next six hours.
“Here you are,” says the agent who has been assigned to deal with him, handing over a memory stick. They’re fresh faced and eager to please which suits Clint perfectly. Trying to get information out of an actual ranking WSC member would be hell.
“Thanks,” Clint says. “Hey, is Cap in the building today? I mean, Commander Rogers? Sorry, I still can’t get used to him being the boss. He’s still an Avenger in my head.”
The agent shakes his head. “No, the meetings concluded on Friday, did you not know?”
“Kid, I’m just a guy with a bow and arrow, no-one tells me anything,” Clint says, and the agent nods. Clint’d be slightly insulted that everyone finds it so easy to accept the fact he has no idea what is going on, but right now it’s getting him everything he wants. “Aw bro, have I really missed him?”
“All the delegates were gone by Friday afternoon except the British,” says the agent. “Though that is information in the public domain.”
Either he’s trying to cover his back for telling Clint too much or he’s suspicious of how little Clint appears to know. Clint barks out a laugh and pulls out his phone, that for all intents and purposes looks like a drug-dealer flip phone. “You think I get twitter on this thing?” he says. “I’ll get a smartphone when I stop losing things.”
“Of course,” says the agent. “Now Mister Hawkeye, if the flight paths are all you need, we will get you signed out?”
“Sure,” Clint says amiably and lets himself be steered out of the building. The moment he’s clear, he uses his not-exactly-a-drug-dealer-flip-phone and checks the Stark-built tracker program which has been running since he entered the building. Every person in a hundred yard radius who can be identified comes up in a neat, tidy, and very illegal list, but there are some glaring omissions from the register. Namely, Steve’s support team
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he admits defeat and calls Sharon on a secure channel.
“This is Agent Thirteen acknowledging Hawkeye. Why are you not using your pager? You know what, never mind. Status report.”
“Oh hi babe,” he says, easy and casual the way Nat taught him, mindful that’s he’s on a crowded street. “Where did you say to meet the guys again? I went and no-one turned up.”
“No-one?” Sharon repeats.
“No, like I checked their hotel and it looks like they already left. So I went to the bar and the bar staff said they’d left a while ago.”
“Shit,” Sharon says, and Clint feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “ Shit .”
“You’re telling me you have no idea where they are?”
“No,” she says, regaining some of her professionalism. “As of now, Commander Rogers and the team are MIA.”
“Shit,” Clint echoes. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get home,” she says immediately. “If someone has managed to - if the situation is what we think it is then-”
He feels it first; a prickle up the back of his spine that usually means that someone is watching. Resisting the urge to spin on the spot, he wanders towards the S-Bahn station entrance, pretending to check the timetable.
“I could stay here and look some more,” he says, looking up. “There’s got to be some trace-”
“No, I think,” Sharon begins, but she doesn’t sound sure. “I think we should brief everyone.”
Clint’s hearing aids may be Starktech but they’re not always great at hearing layering in sound, which is why he jumps a mile when someone appears right goddamn next to him. He twists around reflexively but when a leather-gloved hand catches his wrist, he thinks maybe it’s less the fault of the hearing aids and more the fact that Bucky goddamn Barnes can sneak up on anyone, even wearing combat boots.
Clint’s mouth drops open. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”
“Looking for a friend,” Bucky says, giving the phone a glare. “What are you doing here? Who are you talking to?”
Clint shoves him away, bringing the phone back to his ear and interrupting Sharon’s urgent requests for sitrep. “Wanna tell me why Barnes is here?”
There’s a long silence.
“Put him on the line,” Sharon says.
Clint holds out the phone to Barnes who shakes his head. Clint steps forwards, and uses the extra four inches of height he has on Barnes to look down at him, hoping Barnes understands just how pissed off he is. Holding his ground and lifting his chin in a way that is half defiant, half obnoxious, Barnes relents and takes the phone. Clint notices the way his shoulders hunch slightly as he speaks to Sharon, looking down at the floor and kicking his toes against the ground. It’s like he’s upset about being told off and that makes no sense - Barnes doesn’t give a damn about anything.
“No, I didn’t - he texted me back and it didn’t feel right,” Barnes is saying. Insisting, really. “I didn’t know how much was compromised so I thought-” he stops, mouth turning down unhappily. “I know I’m meant to be in New York, but - Okay. No. Fine.” He snaps the phone closed and hands it back to Clint.
“I wasn't done talking to her!”
“We’ve got forty-eight hours to find out what we can,” Barnes says, utterly ignoring the fact he just hung up on Clint’s phonecall, which is just rude. “Then we’ve got to report back if we still can’t find anything.”
“Why are you even here?” Clint demands. “This is my mission.”
Barnes looks around them then jerks his chin in an indication that they should start walking. Clint falls into step, though he is really tempted to just about turn and march in the other direction.
“I got a text,” Bucky says, “from Steve. It didn’t look right, it didn't sound right. I think someone else has his cell and is trying to throw us off. Make it look like he’s okay.”
“What did it say?”
Barnes doesn't answer.
“ Barnes . What did it say?”
“It said he was just finishing up with some extra meetings in Berlin and I shouldn't worry.”
Clint stops dead. There’s an alarmed ringing right behind him and a cyclist has to swerve around him, cursing him in very angry German. “That’s it?”
Bucky’s jaw clenches as he grabs Clint’s elbow and makes him move again. “Yes.”
“And from that, you got ‘Steve is in trouble’?”
“Well you can’t find him either,” Bucky snaps, and steers them right into a coffee shop. He points at a small vacant table in the corner and then stalks up to the counter without looking back. Clint thinks again about just walking off but finds himself sitting down at the tiny table, waiting for Bucky to come back.
Which he does. With only one coffee.
“You asshole,” Clint says. Bucky just stares at him, cracking the lid off of his to-go cup and sipping his drink with a complete deadass expression in place. “Asshole,” Clint reiterates, and hauls himself up to go and order his own.
He makes sure to knock his elbow right into the side of Barnes’ head as he swings back down into his seat. He half expects to be sucker-punched with a metal fist but Barnes just murder-eyes him some more. Clint bets that if he’d tried that a few years ago - before Steve’s quasi-dying wish forced Barnes to be a team player - Barnes would have gutted him like a fish. Or tried to anyway.
“So, my data points to Steve being missing, because I’ve looked for him and can’t find him,” Clint says. “Why is your evidence any use at all?”
“Because Steve has been my CO since 1943,” Bucky begins-
“Apart from that time you were controlled by Hydra. Or pretending to be Cap because we all thought actual Cap was dead. Whatever.”
Bucky’s expression darkens even further, and his nostrils flare as he very deliberately takes a deep breath to calm down. “The point is, I know that if Steve was genuinely busy and I’d been blowing up his phone, he’d call me and tell me to quit it,” Bucky says. “He’d tear me a new one for bugging him.”
Clint pauses. “You think?”
Bucky nods. “Oh yeah. I used to do it on purpose, some times. Look, I know you don’t like me. I don’t like you. But Steve is my best friend and there’s something wrong and I’m going to find out.”
“Best friend?” Clint says. “How many times have you tried to kill him?”
Bucky leans back, looking disgusted. “You just can't quit it, can you?”
“No, because even if you are best friends, it sounds like you’re here without clearance or a decent plan other than a hunch,” Clint says, and is satisfied to see a dull flush stain Barnes’ cheekbones. “You’re half-cocked and you’re going to get someone hurt.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches. “You’re the one who hasn’t got enough common sense to work out a mission on your own. Face it, without Natasha your success rate is less than impressive.”
“Fuck you,” Clint snaps. He’s tempted to throw his coffee in Barnes’ face but honestly he’s tired and has got a killer headache coming and needs the caffeine before he starts shaking. Instead, he snatches up the cup and pretends to be the bigger person, pointedly giving Barnes the finger before walking away.
He’s not sure if Barnes calls out after him, but he decides it doesn’t matter because even if Barnes had called him he’d have walked off anyway. He doesn’t care if Barnes has a freaking hundred years of experience, he doesn’t care if Barnes has been Steve’s sidekick since 1943. Hell, he doesn’t care that Barnes has been Captain America. Clint can do just fine without any of that, and without Barnes’ goddamn baggage.
He regroups, going to get more ice cream before going back to the abandoned hotel. He rages while playing tetris on his phone, and then when the battery dies he pulls himself together and decides to be a professional Avenger-agent and look back over the paperwork that Sharon gave him.
He reads the first page about eight times without taking in any of the words.
“Aw, paperwork,” he groans, sliding down the couch until he’s mostly on the floor. He casts a forlorn look at his phone that’s charging over on the nightstand, wonders what Barnes is doing. Maybe he’s still in the coffee shop. Maybe he’s off shooting things. Maybe he’s used his creepy Winter Soldier senses and has found Steve already. Oh man, Barnes is going to find Steve and Natasha will be all happy and Clint will be the loser who can’t even get past level twelve on Tetris.
Ugh, why is he even thinking about Barnes, when he doesn’t even care about Barnes. How come Barnes has managed to get under his skin by calling him an idiot? That insult would never usually bother him, because he’s used to people underestimating him. Hell, he actively encourages people to underestimate him; he still gets away without having to formally check his bow at SHIELD because he deliberately messed up the paperwork every time he was asked to do it. It must just be Barnes throwing Natasha’s name out there that’s got him all bent out of shape.
After a few solid minutes of moping, he pulls himself together again, banishing all thoughts of Barnes before getting back down to business. He goes over the mission briefings again and manages to get past the first page this time, trying to spot anything that could be amiss. He can't find anything so gives up, instead calling Sharon and asking her to send him the suspicious activity logs for Berlin. She bitches at him for asking, because it means she has to request the files from the WSC, but then says she’s managed to call in a favour and get them off-record anyway, so Clint doesn’t get why she’s complaining.
Either way, he gets what he wants: a few locations linked tenuously to Hydra that might be worth checking out. It could easily be a dead end, but it could be somewhere Steve has been taken, or has decided to check out himself.
He has a nap, goes out to get dinner and then sets off as dusk is creeping over the city, purpling the sky. Berlin is like New York, a city that never sleeps; it doesn’t seem to get much quieter by night at all.
His first two stops come up with nothing: one is an empty apartment that looks like it was cleared out months ago, and one is a techno-club that apparently only closes for three hours every Sunday. After a little recon, Clint admits that he can’t get into the offices on a whim because of the huge security guards and amount of security cameras, so has a drink, allows himself to be eyed up by a twink wearing excessive amounts of eyeliner, then leaves. Pity, really. He seems to be on a winning streak as far as people hitting on him goes, and he curses the fact he’s working. Maybe he’ll come back to Berlin when this mess is all over.
He heads out of the club into the warm evening air, catching a train out to his last port of call. Man, say what you like about Europe but the public transport here is amazing. Back in the states, once you’re out of New York you’re kinda screwed, left for dead in some godforsaken public-transport void.
It’s close to midnight when he arrives at his final destination: a warehouse in an industrial complex. It’s apparently empty but is listed as a financial address for some characters of interest, so the WSC are keeping an eye on it. He knows the British MI:13 team are interested too, so he’s gonna have to be super secretive to make sure he doesn’t draw the attention of a super-powered James Bond or anything. So, in true clandestine style, he hops the fence and sneaks in.
Once he’s in, he finds nothing but an empty warehouse filled with dust. He’s disappointed; he was at least hoping for some Hydra agents to beat up. Or Steve to be there, sitting atop a pile of unconscious Hydra agents, looking annoyed that Clint has muscled in on his one-man incursion against Hydra.
There’s nothing. Not so much as a bootprint.
He edges further into the warehouse, eyes on a rusted shipping container that’s against the back wall. Everything looks grey in the scant light offered by the moon, but he’s not worried. His night vision is pretty good, not that he ever publicises the fact. Some villains think that turning the lights off is a sure fire way to incapacitate him and he’s happy for them to keep on believing that.
He takes another step and then freezes as he spots something, the faintest shift of a shadow in the darkness. He reaches behind him to grab an arrow out of his quiver, nocking it and pulling his bow to full draw, waiting.
Again, something shifts. He holds his breath, trying to listen even though he knows that his ears are practically useless in situations like these.
This time the shift is more definite; a humanoid shape moving in the darkness by the container.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he murmurs. He stays very still, moving his upper body slightly to aim at the movement. The only reason he hasn’t fired already is that he knows he’ll be in trouble if he accidentally shoots James Bond-
“Put that fucking thing away before you hurt yourself.”
Clint lowers his bow in disbelief as the shadow speaks, moves and morphs into not James Bond but James fucking Barnes. He’s dressed entirely in black and has a pistol with a silencer in hand.
“Oh for fucks sake,” Clint says. “I’d ask what the fuck you’re doing here but the answer is clearly lurking about in the dark and getting in my fucking way. You’re not even supposed to be here, Barnes.”
“I’m following up leads,” Bucky says, sounding tired. “How did you know this place was here?”
“It’s on the WSC suspicious activity list,” Clint says, shoving the arrow back in his quiver as Barnes walked closer. “I checked a few out but still no sign of Cap.”
“Commander Rogers,” Bucky corrects.
Clint gives him a look. “He’s Cap and you know it.”
“Wilson is Cap,” Bucky says, rapidly losing his temper. “Christ, what is this? You defending Steve’s honour or something? Because I tell you, he don’t need it.”
“No, I’m saying that he’s the real Cap and it’s dumb to pretend that anyone else is good enough.”
He expects Bucky to snap back. He doesn’t expect Bucky’s metal fist to shoot out and grab his shirt, yanking him forward so they’re nose to nose.
“You make one more crack about me not being good enough to be Cap. I dare you.”
“Well you’re not,” Clint says. “Get your fucking hands off of me.”
“I should beat the snot outta you,” Bucky says, low and dangerous. “But to be honest, it ain’t worth the pathetic amount of effort it’d take me to do.”
He shoves Clint away from him, hard enough so that Clint stumbles a couple of steps. He sneers at him in the dark before turning away, and Clint sees red. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s lifting his bow and swinging it, hard.
It cracks Barnes across the back of the head hard enough to send him staggering to the floor. Clint tosses his bow aside and follows him down, kneeing him hard in the back. Barnes grunts in pain and twists around, catching Clint in the mouth with an elbow. He reels back, tasting blood, retaliating by punching Barnes in the face as hard as he can.
“You fucking maniac,” Barnes spits, grabbing Clint by the neck and forcing him down onto his back, trying to block Clint’s kicking. “You think you can beat me?”
“In any way that counts,” Clint bites out.
“I could kill you,” Bucky says, tightening his fingers. “Right now. And that would serve you right.”
“Do it,” Clint replies, lifting his head and baring blood-stained teeth at Barnes. “Prove me right.”
Bucky makes a disgusted noise and lets go of him, climbing to his feet and rubbing at the back of his head, checking his fingers for blood.
Clint sits up, throat aching. “Steve’d be real proud of you right now.”
“You hit me!” Bucky snarls, whirling back around. “And stop pretending you know what Steve’d think, you’re barely a colleague.”
“Least I never tried to-” Cint begins, but is distracted by his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulls it out, sees Sharon’s name on the ID. Fuck. That’s not one he can ignore.
He flips the phone open. “Barton.”
“Clint, please tell me you’re with Bucky.”
Clint scowls, watching Bucky walking away. He’s got a good mind to go after him and hit him again.
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
“Good. I need you both to come in. Steve’s officially been kidnapped.”
“What?” Clint says, the words hitting like a dull blow. “Barnes, wait,” he calls to Bucky’s retreating back before turning his attention back to Sharon. “How do you know?”
“Natasha has a source,” Sharon says tightly. Clint curses, and Barnes turns back towards him, expression inscrutable.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Natasha has a source, says Steve is definitely kidnapped,” Clint says, and Bucky’s face goes pale under the red of the blood that’s still dripping from his nose.
“We don’t know who or what yet, but I want you and Barnes back stateside,” Sharon says. “Is he there? Put me on speaker.”
Clint does, and Sharon’s voice fills the space between him and Barnes. “Barnes, did you take a quinjet? It’s not been logged as leaving or arriving anywhere.”
Bucky blows out a breath. “I disabled the trackers,” he admits.
“You are a liability,” Sharon snaps and Barnes looks away from the phone. “Get back here, both of you. Clint, leave the jet you came in there and come back with Barnes.”
“No,” Clint protests. “I’ll take my own jet, thanks.”
“It will take you hours to get the jet cleared for takeoff and we do not have the time,” Sharon snaps. “I do not have the time for you two fucking around or bickering. Get back here now, and that’s an order.”
“Acknowledged,” Barnes says tonelessly. “We’ll be airborne in sixty minutes.”
“Good,” Sharon says and hangs up.
The silence weighs heavy between them, motionless in the dark. Clint moves first, reaching up to wipe his bleeding lip on his sleeve. The atmosphere between them feels brittle, like one wrong move could make it snap again.
“I’m not sorry for hitting you,” Clint says. “But I’m willing to call a truce while Steve’s in trouble.”
“Steve comes first,” Bucky says, which Clint takes as agreement. “Get up. We’ve got to make time if we want to get back at a reasonable hour.”
Clint clambers to his feet, picking up his bow. Barnes looks at him and for a moment it feels like he’s going to say something, but then he he just shakes his head and walks away, leaving Clint with little choice but to follow.