Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

The flight home is unbearably awkward, at least for Clint. When the adrenaline and anger fades, he starts to feel really guilty. He’s in the tiny bathroom, trying to carefully place some narrow butterfly bandages over the cut that runs from his lip down his chin. It’s split open like a goddamn peach, which is probably what he should have expected from winding up someone with a vibranium arm. He’s willing to bet that it wouldn’t be half as bad if Barnes had caught him with his human elbow.

He washes the few errant drops of blood down the sink, the water running pink before it goes clear. Maybe he kind of deserved it, really. He hit Barnes with his bow, and no matter which way he looks at it, that’s seriously violent. God, he’d made a crack at Barnes about disappointing Steve, but in his gut he knows Steve would be horrified at what Clint did back there.

He glances at himself in the polished steel that serves as a mirror before looking away and ducking out of the bathroom. The jet dips and sways beneath his feet and he feels a flare of annoyance, wishing he could blame Barnes but knowing the fault is with turbulence and the autopilot.

Barnes is sitting in the pilot’s seat, elbow on the armrest and head resting on his fist. He’s taken his gloves off and the metal of his knuckles shines dully in the light from the instrument panels. Even in the low blueish glow, Clint can see that he’s got a pretty epic black eye. It’ll probably heal in hours, but still. Clint did that and he doesn’t know if he feels smug or bad about it.

He slides into the copilot’s seat, reaching out to fiddle with one of the stabilizer controls. Bucky sends him an exasperated look but doesn’t comment.

“You think Steve is really in trouble?” Clint asks.

“Dunno,” Bucky says, back to staring straight ahead. “How the fuck should I know?”

Clint huffs, annoyed. “Why are you like this? Why are you so fucking sullen all the time?”

“Might be the years of brainwashing and torture,” Bucky replies. “Maybe the fact I was trained from the age of eleven to be a killer. Maybe it’s because I’ve been on this planet for a hundred years and watched most of my friends and family grow old and die.” He rolls his head to look at Clint. “Or maybe it’s just that I don’t like you.”

“I’ll go with the brainwashing thing,” Clint says. “Most people think I’m great, so it can’t be me.”

He sees Bucky’s nostrils flare as he deliberately takes a deep breath, presumably to stop him punching Clint again. “Look, even discounting our...disagreement, I am having a spectacularly shit day. My best friend is missing, my boss is going to ring me in for disobeying direct orders...could you just give it a break?”

And Clint isn’t a monster, so he nods. “Sure,” he says. “Wanna talk about the Steve thing? Who do you think Nat’s source is?”

“Natasha doesn’t tell me her sources,” Bucky says, which Clint doesn't believe for a second. He's about to call Barnes out on it but apparently the whack around the head has knocked conversational skills loose because Barnes carries on talking, like he and Clint are people who chat. “Fuck. This would be easier if Steve had agreed to wear a tracker, the moron.”

“I thought he did?” Clint says, surprised. “The new set that Tony made?”

“Yeah, I tried that, and found it stuck to Stark’s desk,” Bucky says, and Clint has to stifle a laugh because even though Steve might be MIA, that’s classic.

“Not funny,” Barnes grouches. “If he’d agreed to the damn thing we’d have found him by now. When we get him back I’m gonna sew one to the inside of his ass.”

“Wow, that’s a mental image I didn’t need,” Clint says. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says tonelessly.

Clint stares at the controls a little longer. “Hey.”

“What.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I hit you with my bow. That was uncalled for.”

Bucky rolls his head again, pale eyes finding Clint and resting there for a moment. “Yeah, it was,” he says. “For the record, I wouldn’t have really killed you.”

“Good to know.”

Bucky nods curtly and that’s that - conversation over. But Clint can concede, as he slumps back into his chair and watches the autopilot readings shine blue on the console, that the fact they’ve even managed a conversation without violence is a miracle in itself.

Clint and Bucky are both late for the emergency Avengers meeting this time round. By the time they get to the mansion, Bucky is back to sniping and scowling and Clint is sorely tempted to either hit him again or lock him outside. His tiredness outweighs the urges to slap Barnes upside the head and he just settles on a lot of eye-rolling and one muttered, “Will you calm the fuck down already?”

Maria Hill meets them at the door. She looks them up and down, taking in Clint’s split lip and Barnes’ not-quite-healed black eye, opens her mouth, then closes it again. “I don’t want to know,” she says, lips pinched thin. “Come on. You’re late.”

“My fault,” Barton says. “Barnes is just guilty by association.”

The whole team is there when he shoulders into the meeting room; it is packed . The sort of packed that is gonna make Barnes’ bad mood even worse. Phil Coulson is standing by the door like he's a bouncer, which is a cause for alarm bells seeing as SHIELD never send agents over anymore, preferring to leave the Avengers to Sharon; Stark, Rhodes, Wanda, Pietro and Natasha are sat around the table; Banner and Drew are leaning back against the wall, both with mugs in hand; Parker is somehow sat on the windowsill next to them and Sam and Sharon are standing at the front, heads bent over Sam’s photonic shield. Ugh, Clint hates that thing. If it’s not the vibranium original, then does it even really count?

He hustles past Banner and avoids eye contact with Jess to drop into a chair next to Natasha. She gently touches his hand and he detects a faint flicker of concern in her expression.

“You should see the other guy,” he says, and she frowns, looking around.

“James-” she begins, but then Sharon is calling the room to order and Barnes stays where he is, loitering at the back with his arms folded across his chest and his resting bitchface firmly in place.

“This meeting is confidential,” Sharon says. “And not the regular confidential that you all ignore, but the sort of confidential that means if Stark doesn’t put his phone away I will take it from him by force.”

Everyone’s heads swivel to look at Tony, who glances around and in a moment of incredibly rare self-preservation, tucks his phone into his pocket and holds his hands up. Without missing a beat, Rhodes slips his hand into Tony’s pocket and takes the phone, turning it off before slipping it into his own jacket.

“Okay,” Sharon says, steadying herself. “Commander Rogers is officially missing.”

“What?!”

“No way-”

“Are you sure?”

“When was he last seen?”

The whole team erupts into shocked muttering and murmured conversations. Rhodes has to literally push Tony back down into his chair - he’s looking stunned and like he’s about to go and start his own search party.

Clint internally sighs, twisting around in his chair to look at Barnes. He’s gone even tenser, jaw clenched and shoulders hunched. Clint feels a completely unexpected stab of pity, because talking about Steve being missing sucks, and he and Barnes are the ones who failed in finding him.

“While this is obviously high-priority, we cannot drop the ball on existing ops,” Sharon says. “Parker, Drew, you are to keep doing whatever it is you are doing.”

“Following Eddie Brock around to check he hasn’t got any more symbiotes than usual,” Parker says with a salute. “We’re on it.”

“Everyone else is working on the AIM case. Rhodes, I’m pulling you on to the AIM case to cover Barnes. Barnes, Barton and Romanov will take point on looking for Commander Rogers,” Sharon says. “They will start following leads in Berlin. Phil is going to handle everything at SHIELD and make sure that word doesn't get out about Commander Rogers being missing. The last thing we want is panic over there. Stark, you can multitask. AIM business, electronic surveillance for Steve, work with Coulson to keep SHIELD from knowing he's gone.”

“What, that’s it?” Stark says. “Me, Agent Agent, the murder twins and Robin Hood?”

“We are in the middle of a huge break on AIM, remember?” Sam says pointedly. “You know, the missiles and the bio-weapons and the human experimentation? Hundreds of missing people?”

“But-”

“We can handle it,” Barnes says from the back.

“Seconded,” Clint says. “You know he’d kill us for dropping the ball on the AIM case, even if it is to go rescue his ass.”

Tony blinks. “Wait, Barton is making sense and agreeing with Barnes? Is he a Skrull?”

“In my defense I am very sleep deprived,” Clint says. “And someone punched me real hard in the head.”

“You hit me first,” Barnes intones from the back, but it’s missing its usual hissing and spitting. He just sounds tired.

Tony looks at Sharon. “You want to send them together , to rescue Cap.”

“I’m Cap,” Sam says, rubbing his face wearily.

“You don’t even have the proper shield,” Clint says and whoa, he must be sleep deprived if he’s saying this shit out loud.

“Enough,” Sharon says. “We are stretched thin enough as it is with the AIM case. I will move resources as I see fit but as it stands, that is what we are doing.”

“Who the fuck put you in charge?”

Everyone goes very quiet. Clint turns to look at Bucky, half-incredulous and half-impressed that he had the balls to say it out loud.

Sharon glares at him. “Problem?”

“You put yourself in charge of a situation you can’t handle,” Bucky snaps. “You just hauled our asses in from Berlin and now you’re telling us to go back? You’re not thinking straight.”

“You carry on picking fault with my decisions in front of the team and you’ll be taken off the case altogether,” she warns.

“Fuck that,” Bucky says in disgust. “I’m calling conflict of interest.”

Sam steps forwards. “Bucky, don’t make me say it, man.”

“What?! She’s clearly got no fucking idea how to find Steve and instead of letting me get on with it and find him she’s dragging me back here for a fucking meeting, to tell me nothin’ I didn’t already know-”

“You are the one at risk of being pulled over conflict of interest,” Sam says sternly. “She was right to pull you in before you ran off half-cocked and got someone hurt. If you can’t work with the others and think before you move, you’ll be benched.”

Bucky’s lip curls and he pushes away from the wall and storms out. Nat sighs and makes to get up but Clint shakes his head. “I’ll go,” he says, and slips out of his chair and out of the room.

He catches up with Barnes by the doors. “Hey, Barnes-”

“What, come to tell me to get my ass back into that meeting?”

“No, I’ve come to tell you that I agree with you, but we have to at least pretend to play nice with Sharon and SHIELD or they’ll cut us off and make finding Steve really hard,” Clint says. “I get it.”

“You have no idea,” Bucky snaps, turning to key in his code to get out.

“You’re not the only one who’s worried about him,” Clint says. “He was my best friend too, until you came back.”

Bucky goes very still, metal fingers frozen on the keypad. He huffs out a humourless laugh, then turns to look Clint straight in the eye. “You have no idea what me and Steve mean to each other,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You have no fucking idea what we’ve been through. You weren’t there.”

And there’s something in the way he says it, something haunted and scared in his eyes that keeps Clint silent. He just clenches his jaw and stares defiantly at Barnes, until Barnes turns away, finally manages to key his code in then storms out, slamming the door behind him.

“Jeez, dramatic much?” Clint grouches. He hovers for a moment, wondering what it is that's making him feel like he’s missed something here, like there’s a gap where something should have happened.

Voices and footsteps murmuring down the corridor make him move; the meeting has obviously been dismissed. Parker passes him first, holding up his hand for a high-five which Clint obliges; Banner goes past him next, nodding at him before heading deeper into the mansion instead of out of the front door; he’s closely followed by Jessica Drew, who looks away from him, pretending he's not there. Ouch, Clint thinks, but does concede that he was a shitty boyfriend to her so can't really expect anything more.

He should really stop sleeping with his teammates, maybe.

He’s got half a mind to follow Bucky’s example and escape but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he spots Natasha and Maria walking towards him and thinks better of it. He offers them a wave, but neither of them wave back, instead simply marching up to him like they mean business. It’s the sort of approach that normally has Clint wishing he were wearing body-armour, or at least a cup.

“Where did he go?” Natasha asks without preamble.  

“Out,” Clint says. “What? I’m not stopping him, he’s not a kid.”

Natasha makes a displeased noise and pulls her phone out. “We’re leaving in two hours,” she says. “Me, you and James.”

“Oh, joy,” Clint says wearily, and looks to Maria. “Don’t worry, I will be the epitome of professionalism.”

“Did you really hit him first?” Maria asks.

“Yeah,” Clint admits. “He was pushing for it though.”

Natasha looks less than pleased but Clint swears he sees the ghost of a smile on Maria’s face. She’s not a huge fan of Bucky Barnes either - she was certainly not shy about making her objections known when Steve first bought him in. “I’m not sure if you’re brave or stupid,” she says.

“Me either,” he shrugs, smiling weakly at her.

Natasha makes another annoyed sound. “Clint, stop flirting for ten seconds and move . We need to gear up.”

Clint chokes on air. “I am not flirting,” he says, and then looks at Maria. “Not that you’re not hot, but I was not, I was just being nice-”

Maria arches an eyebrow. “Did you just call me hot?”

Clint tries to find some way of removing his foot from his mouth, and as he flounders Nat seizes the opportunity to bundle him down the corridor towards the armory.

“This mission is not going well for me,” he says.

“Oh Clint,” she says, patting his bicep in what is probably meant to be a reassuring manner. “That’s not the mission, that’s just your life.”

It’s two minutes before take-off and Clint is starting to hope that Barnes isn’t going to make it. He’s back in the pilot’s seat of the same jet he and Barnes returned stateside in, chugging a can of Monster and praying it’s got enough caffeine in to get him and the jet back to Europe.

“That stuff is bad for you,” Natasha says without looking at him.

“Being an Avenger is bad for me, but I keep doing it.”

She smiles at that, slow and amused. “True,” she says. “Maybe you should quit.”

“Okay, I quit.”

“No you don’t.”

He laughs, turning his attention back to the flight systems. He gets everything geared up and ready to go, and he’s just about to shut the back door of the jet when he hears a sound he was hoping not to hear but bracing for anyway: combat boots clanking up the metal walkway.

“Nice of you to join us,” Nat says as Barnes comes to stand behind her chair.

No it’s not, Clint thinks uncharitably. You should have stayed at home.

Barnes just grunts. “We going or are we just sitting here?”

“We were waiting for you, dumbass,” Clint says, downing the rest of his energy drink and tossing the can aside before hitting the button to close the back door. “Strap in, I’m doing this in five and a half hours.”

“That’s not safe,” Barnes says.

“You wanna find Steve or not?” Clint says. “Or do you wanna just sit around while he’s missing?”

He swears he can hear Barnes’ teeth grinding together from here. For a moment, he think he’s about to get punched in the head again but then Barnes just stomps away and sits down in one of the seats.

“Alright,” Clint says, firing up the engines. “Thank you for flying with Barton Airways, we accept no liability for injury caused by turbulence, make sure you log your frequent flyer miles, and your sick bag is in your seat pocket.”

“Just go,” Natasha says, and he does.

In his defense, he didn’t actually mean to make Barnes throw up. He’s flown more recklessly before and really, a stone-cold-assassin should not be having trouble with some minor turbulence.

“You do not get to be mad at me about this,” he shouts over his shoulder once the jet has safely landed. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Barnes says hoarsely, appearing out of the tiny bathroom. He looks pale and sweaty and more gross than usual. Doesn’t stop Nat walking over though, pressing her palm to his cheek and asking him something in quiet Russian.

“He’s not a baby,” Clint mutters, savagely jabbing at buttons on the console. For fuck’s sake, he gets sick and Nat just tells him to get a grip. Though she does bring him coffee and surprisingly tasty homemade Russian soup, so he knows she does actually care. It’s just - how come Barnes is the one she’s all touchy-feely with?

Well, he knows the answer to that, even if he doesn’t like it.

They leave the jet with a SHIELD contact, leaving the private airfield and making their way into the city centre. The sun is just starting to warm the concrete of the pavements and the city is already stirring, and Clint wishes for his bed with the intensity and desperation of a dying star.

“I am going to speak to an old friend,” Natasha says, digging her hand into her oversized handbag and pulling out an oversized iPhone and a pair of oversized sunglasses. She’s looking happy and relaxed, her face telegraphing tourist to anyone who looks her way. Bucky is still looking ill and Clint thinks he could park a truck in the bags under his eyes, which is probably why Nat takes pity and delves back into her bag, handing him another pair of sunglasses.

Barnes gives her a pleading look. “Могу я пойти с тобой?”

“ нет ,” she says. “No, you cannot come with me. You two are going to go to Bass. It’s a club. It’s recently been purchased by the owners of the club Clint already checked out.”

“Is it not worth going back there then?”

Nat shakes her head. “From what I can tell, there’s more activity and money coming through the second club. We’ll try there first. And by we, I mean you two. It’s open all night and pretty much all day so you can go now.”

“I am not dressed for clubbing,” Clint says. “I am not awake enough for clubbing.”

“I need ledgers,” Nat says, ignoring him. “And any contact numbers you can find.”

“Uggh,” Clint protests, though he thinks it comes out closer to a whine. “Nat-”

“I assume we need to get changed,” Barnes interrupts, rubbing his forehead and looking pained. “Have you booked a hotel?”

Nat sticks her hand into her oversized handbag and pulls out a sheaf of papers. “Reservations here,” she says. “Two rooms. I trust you two can find your own outfits?”

Bucky takes the paperwork from her with a sullen air. She rolls her eyes and turns to give Clint a credit card. “This is under Jeffrey Dunbar.”

“ Jeffrey ?” Clint echoes in disbelief. “Nat, do you hate me?”

“Says the man named Clint,” Barnes chips in. “Isn’t your brother called Barney?”

“Oh you wanna go there, James Buchanan-”

“I’m leaving,” Nat announces, and does just that, walking away from them and leaving them standing there in the cool morning air.

Clint watches her go with same same resigned air that a kid might watch their Mom depart for work, leaving said kid alone and at the mercy of a big brother that he doesn’t exactly get along with. Actually, scratch that; the only person other than Barney that Clint would count as a brother is Steve. Barnes is more of a hated babysitter, not that Clint thinks he’s in charge here at all.

“Come on then, let’s get this done,” Barnes says. “You know, you should have brought your black tactical gear. That looks enough like a Berlin bondage rave outfit.”

“You are not as funny as you think you are,” Clint says. “And you’re the one who is obsessed with black leather, not me.”

He turns his back on Barnes and starts walking because he feels like he won the argument with that one and doesn’t want to give Barnes time to clap back at him. He thinks he hears a vague mutter of ‘purple spandex’ but he decides to ignore it. “Sorry, can't hear you,” he calls back over his shoulder, gratified to see Barnes is actually following him. The less they argue, the sooner they can find Steve and everything can get back to normal.

Remarkably, they manage to not argue for the entire shopping trip. They get coffee and wait around for a nondescript clothing store to open, standing in not-quite-amicable but possibly tolerable silence.  Once the stores open they make a mutually unspoken agreement to split up, meeting back at the register. Barnes gets a pair of dark leather pants that look like they belong on a biker, and a long-sleeve black Henley. It’s so predictable that Clint has to literally bite his tongue to not make a joke. For himself, he gets a pair of skinny jeans and a shirt that’s probably a size too small. He wants to get it in purple but he’s aware of the hypocrisy in that predictable decision, so gets it in grey instead.

He’s handing over his credit card when Barnes frowns. “One of us needs a jacket,” he says, and disappears, slinking away like a cat. Clint looks at the spot that Barnes had occupied, then to the cashier, then back again. He’s about to start apologizing in German when Barnes appears again; he pops up behind Clint and makes him jump, then thrusts a leather jacket towards him.

“Try this.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Clint groans. “More leather?”

“Try it,” Barnes insists so Clint capitulates with a put-upon sigh, taking the jacket and slipping it on.

Oh.

It fits perfectly and he looks hot . He doesn’t even need a mirror to tell. It’s less clunky and biker than Barnes’ usual taste and more fitted and stylish. It’s supple and light across his shoulders and pulls in just slightly at the waist, and the sleeves are perfectly fitted - slim but with enough space to slip a knife into the cuff if needed.

“You’ll do,” Barnes says.

“How do you know my size?” Clint asks as he slips the jacket off and hands it to the cashier. Barnes’ eyes snaps up to his and he holds Clint’s gaze for a long moment, but then he just walks away and shoulders out through the door. Clint watches him through the window, exasperated at Barnes’ refusal to answer a basic goddamn question.

“Your friend seems stressed,” the cashier says. “But at least he picked out a beautiful jacket for you, yes?”

“That he did,” Clint concedes, handing over his credit card, still watching Barnes who has stopped outside the front of the shop to light a cigarette. “And he’s always stressed, don’t worry about it.”

The cashier laughs in a polite, customer-service way and finishes ringing up Clint’s items. She hands them to him and Clint manages to remember to say thank you in German, which makes her smile. He gives her a wink before leaving, meeting Bucky outside.

“So, you just flirt with everyone, huh?” Bucky says sourly.

“No,” Clint replies. “I’m not flirting with you .”

“You’re not my type,” Bucky says, and then lifts his chin somewhat defiantly and says, “I prefer redheads.”

Oh, that was uncalled for. Clint opens his mouth to say, ‘Yeah well last time you two were together she still slept with me,’ and just manages to bite it back because even in his head he knows how cruel it would be to say and he really isn’t a monster. He clenches his jaw tight and shakes his head.

“Yeah, I know you do,” he says shortly. “So do I.”

It’s almost worth not rising to the bait for the surprised look that flits across Barnes’ face. Shaking his head, Clint starts walking. “Come on, let’s go get this over with so I can go back to bed.”

When they get back to the hotel, Natasha is nowhere to be found. The check-in clerk gives them one key, saying that Bucky’s sister has already checked in and collected the other. Clint is honestly too tired to have a tantrum about it and Barnes just nods curtly, apparently also willing to deal with it for now. They take the elevator up to the third floor and find the room at the end of the corridor. Clint knocks on the room next door, hoping Nat will be there, but no luck.

“We can just get changed in here,” Barnes says, opening the other room. “We’ll swap later.”

“Sure,” Clint says. He kicks the door shut as Barnes vanishes into the bathroom with his half of the new clothes, leaving Clint alone. The hotel room is pretty basic and very small; there’s two single beds, a lamp and a table with the room service menu on and that’s it. It’s clean though, which Clint admits is a pretty low bar to be grateful for.

Clint gets himself changed in less than a minute then promptly falls face down onto one of the beds. He’s pretty sure his real superpower is the ability to nap any place any time, because he’s out like a light within thirty seconds of fumbling out his hearing aids and mashing his face into a pillow.

He’s woken up by someone tugging on his ankle. He rolls over to see Barnes frowning at him and when his bleary eyes manage to focus his brows shoot up.

Goddamnit, Barnes got hot while he was napping.

Sure, Clint’s always known that under the grease and hair, Barnes is objectively handsome. But now, here he is with freshly-washed hair tied up in a bun at the base of his neck, clean shaven and hot .

“What the fuck?” Clint manages, groping for his hearing aids. “How long was I asleep for?”

“‘Bout an hour,” Barnes says. “Wake up, we need to go.”

“You,” Clint starts, but stops himself talking. Unfortunately, he can’t stop himself staring as easily.

“What?” Barnes says, and then Clint stands up and Barnes’ eyes flick down over the new tight-fit tee that Clint is wearing and he goes very quiet too.  “I,” he begins after an unreasonably long pause. “I’ve never seen you in...not purple.”

Clint’s beginning to feel a little self-conscious. “Grey’s not my colour,” he defends, smoothing his hand over the front of the t-shirt before going to retrieve the jacket.

“Careful, there’s a knife hidden in the sleeve,” Barnes says.

“Sure,” Clint says, eyes still on Barnes as he slides the jacket on. “You have a man bun.”

Barnes’s expression goes pained. “Why is it a man bun? You don’t call them women-buns when a woman has one.”

“I don’t know. You just look different,” Clint says.

“Yeah,” Barnes says, and reaches up to touch his jaw almost unconsciously. “I don’t think I’ve been clean-shaven since nineteen-forty-four.”

Clint huffs out a laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”

“No,” Bucky says shortly, picking up the room key from the table and handing it to Clint to slip into the pocket of his jacket. “I’m pretty sure that’s true. Now come on, we’ve got work to do.”

The club is set inside an old factory. It’s all concrete and exposed vents and heavy thudding bass that thrums through Clint’s belly, even from where they’re standing outside. He hates it already, knows that the volume of the music is going to make hearing any other sounds difficult.

“So this place has a reputation,” Barnes murmurs to him as they wander towards the entrance. “Apparently, anything goes.”

“Great. I’m assuming by anything you mean drink, drugs and orgies, that sort of thing?”

“Probably,” Barnes says. “Not that we’ll be partaking.”

“Not even a little bit?”

Barnes just gives him a flat look, walking up to the bouncer and nodding with an easy confidence that he rarely shows when he’s not on mission. Clint keeps close, ducking his head and sidling in after Barnes. He wonders what people think of them, what assumptions they’re making about him and Barnes turning up at a place like this together.

The moment they step inside, Clint feels like they might as well’ve been transported to a whole other planet. The fresh summer morning is gone, locked out and hidden behind the heavy steel doors and boarded-up windows. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, punctuated only by orange and blue lights that slide impassively over people and walls alike. They don’t reach the dark corners of the room, leaving shadowed spaces that feel disconcerting and alluring at the same time. It feels seductive and slightly dangerous, the air warm with sweat and booze. They weave through the lower levels, past a bar and an empty dancefloor. The booths around the edge of the floor are busier: full of patrons drinking and dancing and even partaking in some extracurriculars that Clint is sure aren't standard for most nightclubs.

“Drugs, check,” he shouts in Barnes’ ear, jerking his chin towards a booth that appears to be covered in more cocaine than he's ever seen in his life. Jeez, he didn't even see that much while working for the mob.

Barnes glances over, then nods in the opposite direction. “Orgies, check.”

Clint whips his head around so fast that his neck clicks. Wow, Barnes was right. That’s a lot of nakedness on show, not quite completely hidden in one of the dim recesses where the lights don’t reach. “So you think anyone can go join in? Or is it like they all know each other?”

Barnes gives him a disgusted look and stalks towards the stairs. Clint glances back at the orgy-table then dashes after Barnes. “I wasn’t asking for me!” he yells. “I’m just curious.”

To the surprise of literally no-one, Barnes ignores him. Clint follows him up a metal spiral staircase to the next level which is busier, but seems to have less dicks on show. They go to the bar and Clint orders himself a beer; he asks Barnes what he wants and watches Barnes’ eyes slide over the shelf of whiskey bottles before shaking his head and turning away.

Clint’s not sure what that’s all about and he doesn’t think it’s his business to ask, so he concentrates on following Barnes as they weave through the building. He’s not sure why they stick together while they scope out exits and security cams and - jackpot - the offices, but it’s working and probably helping their cover or something.

Barnes finally settles with his back to a wall, toilets to his right and the offices directly opposite him. There’s only one security guy and he seems less interested in his job and more in chatting up a guy in a literal mesh shirt. Clint’s not complaining because it makes their life easier. He’s not complaining about the mesh shirt either, because firstly, if there’s anywhere where you can get away with that sort of bold fashion choice, it’s here; and secondly the guy wearing it has abs that Clint would happily lick tequila from. Not as good as his own, but still. A solid eight.

Barnes nudges him over slightly so he’s got a better line of sight to the offices. The lights here aren’t flashing or moving, just a steady orange glow like an old streetlamp, or backlighting in a carnival tent. It highlights the line of Barnes’ cheekbones, the shadow of his jaw. It makes him look lazy and dangerous, like a panther waiting to strike.

Clint’s never seen him like this before.

“So we need to get past that one guy,” Bucky says as Clint drains his beer and sets the plastic cup on a concrete ledge. “Mesh-shirt guy has just left and he’s looking this way. Don’t turn around.”

Clint just looks Bucky dead in the eye, hoping that Bucky can read the ‘I am not a fucking idiot’ that he's trying to convey. “I wasn’t going to,” he says. “What’s the guy looking at?”

“You,” Bucky says simply. “Okay, easy enough. Distract him and I’ll go in and get the stuff for Nat.”

Clint rears back. “Distract him? You mean seduce him.”

“Whatever works.”

“You’re kidding me, right? You’ve done too many missions with Nat. Honeytraps are her forte, not mine.”

“It’ll work,” Barnes insists. “He’s still looking at you.”

Clint sighs, turns to look over his shoulder, ignoring the alarmed noise Barnes makes. The security guy is indeed looking at him; dark eyes under a tumble of dark hair. He’s not the worst guy that Clint has ever had to distract, not that he’ll be admitting that to Barnes, ever.

“Why have I got to seduce the guy?” Clint grouches.

“Because I can’t take my shirt off,” Barnes says pointedly.

“How far are you expecting me to go?” Clint asks. “How’s he even going to know I swing that way?”

Barnes looks Clint up and down, then cautiously reaches out to take his hand.

“The hell are you doing?” Clint asks, trying to subtly yank his hand out of Bucky’s grip.

“We’re gonna move, heading towards the corridor back to the bar. You’re gonna kiss me. I’m gonna carry on and go to the bar,” Barnes says with literally no inflection in his voice, like he’s a robot. “Then you can turn your attention to him.”

“Not happening,” Clint says, still trying to pull his hand away. “Time for plan B.”

Bucky’s grip tightens on his hand and Clint winces. “I will do anything to get Steve back,” he says, low and angry. “This is the simplest solution. Now fucking suck it up and do what I say.”

“I really, really don’t like you,” Clint tells him.

“Whatever,” Bucky says. “Believe it or not, kissing you is not the worst thing I’ve ever had to do for a mission. In fact, it’s a welcome change of pace from what Hydra had me do. So sorry if it’s upsetting your delicate sensibilities but I actually prefer it as an option to killing and torture.”

Clint has to look away. “Point taken,” he mutters. “Hands off the merchandise though, pal.”

Bucky gives him a scornful look, but his grip on Clint’s hand does turn gentle. He pushes away from the wall, pulling Clint out into the open space. When Clint resists, he steps up close so they're almost pressed together, his mouth hovering near Clint’s ear.

“Stop glaring at me, we've got to sell this.”

Clint feels his stomach go tight at the wash of warm breath over his ear. Goddamn, now is not the time for him to be thinking with his dick.  “Could be hate sex,” he says. He swallows hard, letting his hand drift up to settle on Barnes’ waist.

“Not gonna happen,” Barnes breathes, and then he drifts his mouth over Clint’s in something that’s not quite a kiss and is far too intimate considering they hate each other, then he’s pulling back and walking away without another word.

“Asshole,” Clint snarls, wrong-footed and off-guard. He scowls at Barnes’ retreating back and then crosses his arms over his chest, not entire sure why he’s feeling so pissed off and petulant. He glances over at the office door and it’s only when he spots the security guy watching him with increased interest that he remembers the mission.

He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, wandering closer to the guy. “I just got turned down, didn’t I”

“I think you did,” the guy says.

“Great,” Clint says, laying it on a little like he’s tipsy and horny and has lower standards than he actually does. “Been tryn’ to get on that dick all night.”

“You could do better than that,” the guy says and Clint grins. Bingpot , he thinks, taking another step closer.

“Yeah?” he smiles slow and wicked, and the guy smiles back.

Forty minutes later and Clint is hightailing it out of the club, the shouts of a very pissed off security guy ringing in his ears. Clint has to roll his eyes; it’s not like he got the guy’s pants down before he changed his mind and said he was actually in love with his friend so he was going to find him even if he did get turned down again. No, he just got him against the bathroom wall for some light making out before changing his mind.

He’s disorientated for a moment, bursting out of the doors into bright sunlight rather than darkness. His body clock has decided that making out with security in a hedonistic nightclub equals early hours of the morning, and his brain can’t quite compute that it’s actually closer to lunchtime. Ugh, his brain is already scrambled enough from having to fake-be-in-love with Barnes and the not-kissing thing that they did.

Also, he realises as he heads out of the gate and starts walking back towards the city centre, he and Barnes have no rendezvous plan, which is just sloppy of them. It’s mission 101 and Clint’s annoyed at them both for forgetting it. See, them teaming up was a terrible idea; they can’t even get the basics right-

And he abruptly stops as he spots Barnes standing outside a coffee shop with a cup in each hand, a cap pulled low over his face. Relief rolls through Clint as he jogs over; he really didn’t fancy telling Natasha that he’d managed to lose Barnes in an orgy-club.

“Here,” Barnes says, thrusting out a cup towards Clint before Clint can even get a word out. “Wash the taste of security guard out of your mouth.”

Clint takes the cup slowly. “Is this - are you doing something nice for me?”

Barnes grimaces. “I know being intimate with people for a mission is not always the easiest,” he says carefully, looking like he’s contemplating eating wasps. “I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

Clint takes a sip of coffee. “At least tell me you got what you needed.”

Barnes nods. “Numbers, ledgers and a copy of all online files.”

“Where are they?”

Barnes gives him a look. “Tucked into the back of my pants. You wanna check?”

Clint feels himself flush. “No, I'm good,” he says, then sighs in relief. “At least it worked.”

Barnes still doesn't look happy. “Did you - I came to find you but you were in the bathrooms-”

“Oh man, you could have rescued me,” Clint says. “Kicked down the door, played the jealous ex or whatever.”

“I didn’t know that was the angle we were going for,” Barnes says stiffly.

“Neither did I, till I said it,” Clint says.

Barnes just grunts, still looking pissed off. Clint has literally no idea what’s rattled him so just drops it and starts walking back towards the hotel. Barnes follows, still scowling and giving off palpable amounts of negative energy; it's like hanging out with a bad-tempered thundercloud.

By the time they get back to the hotel, Clint is ready to sleep for three days and doesn’t care where it happens. They trudge up to the room in silence and Clint crosses his fingers as Bucky knocks softly on Natasha’s door.

“Впусти меня,” he calls through the door. “Natasha. это я.”

There’s no answer. Heart sinking, Clint steps away to open the door to the other room, and immediately spots a note on the floor, slipped under the door while they were out.

Boys. I have some leads and all of them point to Steve being alive. I’ll be back in the morning. Stay here and get some rest. Do not break into my room or I will shoot you both. Kisses, Natalia.

Иаков - будь добр к нему. Стив тоже важен для него.

“Barnes,” Clint calls, picking the note up. He show it to Barnes who reads it twice and then crumples it in his metal fist.

“Not happening,” Barnes says, and stomps away.

“Where are you going?” Clint hisses.

“To get a different room!”

Clint lets him go. It's no skin off his nose if Barnes wants to stay somewhere else; in fact, it means he’s got the room to himself so he can have a bath and laze around in his underwear - his favourite methods of destressing. He’s gone as far as to test the hot water in the bath taps when he hears a knocking at the door. His stomach sinks, because he doesn’t think Nat would knock.

He opens the door and sure enough, Barnes shoulders his way in. “No spare rooms,” he says. “And someone has taken my credit card.”

Clint holds his hands up in the face of Barnes’ murderous glare. “It wasn’t me,” he says. “I haven't stolen anything from you.”

“I know it wasn't you,” Bucky snarls, shutting the door quietly, a stark contrast to the anger he’s radiating. “I don’t even know why she wants us to get on.”

“Well,” Clint says uncertainty. “We kind of were getting on back there. You bought me a coffee.”

“Yeah because I made you suck that security guy’s dick and I felt bad about it!”

“Whoa,” Clint says. Is that why Barnes is so bent out of shape? He thinks he forced Clint to bang the security guy? “First off, I didn’t suck anything. I just kissed the guy.”

“ No-one should be forced to give over their body.”

“I hear you,” Clint says, wondering why he’s trying to reassure him. “Look, you were right. On a mission, anything goes. Especially if it’s to find Steve. I signed up to be an Avenger and to get shit done. I wouldn’t have done anything I couldn’t have lived with afterwards, trust me.” He exhales heavily, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ve still got my card. I’ll go find another place to stay if you really can’t deal with it.”

Bucky makes an irritated noise. “It's fine. We shouldn’t split up.”

“Let’s just…” Clint gestures uselessly. “Order room service and sleep and get to tomorrow morning.”

Barnes replies by going to lie down on his bed, his back to Clint. Sensing that the conversation is over, Clint goes with his original plan of locking himself in the bathroom and running himself a bath. Trying to relax is futile despite the warm water and bubbles; he's worried about Steve, stressed about this dumb mission which is more spy-games than shooting, and he's all turned around by Barnes not-kissing him in the club.

See, Clint knows he's a flirt. He's not ashamed of it. In fact, he kinda likes it. Not when it gets him into trouble with his significant others because he does take relationships seriously, no matter what other people think or say. Relationships aside, the thing here is that he usually knows who he’s gonna flirt with, who will be receptive to said flirting, who he'll end up having in his personal space in some capacity. But Barnes just went ahead and smashed through Clints preconceived boundaries without so much as a heads up.

Bucky goddamn Barnes is not someone Clint would ever even have put in the ‘friendly shoulder pats and hugs’ column, let alone anything more.

It's unnerving, is what it is. Barnes has no business surprising Clint like that because Clint doesn't want to admit that he's wrong about Barnes in any way, shape, or form.

Still completely unrelaxed, he gives up and gets out of the bath, getting back into his jeans because sharing a room with Barnes means no hanging around naked. Fuck putting a shirt on though, he’s not doing that until absolutely necessary and if Barnes doesn’t like it he can suck a dick. He slips one hearing aid back in, listening for sounds in the other room, half-expecting Barnes to have caved and broken in to the other room despite Nat's warning. Hell, given half a chance he’d probably do it, just to get some space from stupid-handsome-Barnes and the whole weird guilt-trip about making Clint seduce a security guard.

What he finds is yet again not what he was expecting at all: Barnes is sitting up against the headboard of the second bed, reading the mission files and eating pizza.

There's a second box on Clint's bed, unopened and smelling gloriously warm.

“Didn't know what you liked so I ordered you pepperoni,” Barnes says without inflection.

“My favourite,” Clint admits. “Thanks, Barnes.”

Bucky's eyes flick up from the paperwork, warm in the light from the bedside lamp. Clint thinks he’s back to his stoic and silent routine, but as he sits down on the bed and flips open the pizza box he hears a quiet and surprisingly unsarcastic, “You're welcome.”

Clint's woken up in the early hours of the next morning by someone thumping his shoulder. He jerks his head up off the mattress, dazed and confused. Squinting in the darkness, he watches as Barnes heads to the door, pulling it open. Light from the corridor outside spills in, a splash of yellow over the carpet which enables him to see a familiar silhouette slink in.

“Nat,” he breathes, scrambling for his hearing aids as Barnes closes the door.  

“What did you find,” she says without preamble, sitting on the edge of Clint's bed beside his feet. She looks between them expectantly.

Barnes clicks the lamp on before retrieving the the stolen ledgers and paperwork. “The club is definitely Hydra money,” he says, handing them over. “New Hydra.”

“Mmm, I thought it might be,” she says, distractedly scanning the paperwork in front of her. Clint gropes for his phone, checking the time: 4:13am. One of these days, he might just be able to sleep on a normal schedule.

“What're you thinking?” Barnes asks Nat, voice low.

“I'm thinking that I know who to visit next,” she says slowly. She stands up, still scanning the ledgers. “I'll text you your next move.”

“Wait-” Clint starts, but Barnes is quicker. He grabs Nat's wrist to stop her moving, and he means business because he's taken hold with the metal one. Clint shuts his mouth because he knows damn well that Barnes has been on a rollercoaster of emotions over the past few days and if he’s at the point where he’s picking a fight with Natasha, then Clint can admit he’s out of his depth.

“Don't,” Barnes says tightly. “Don't just give me that evasive bullshit. You owe me more than a sit and wait.”

“I don't owe you anything,” she says and Barnes jerks back like she's slapped him. “Let me go.”

Barnes does, dropping her wrist. “This is about Steve,” he says.

“Then stop talking about what you and I do or do not owe each other,” she says, colder than Clint has ever heard her speak to Barnes. “I will text you. Do as I’m telling you or I will ring Sharon and have you benched.”

Ouch, Clint thinks. Shots fired . Nat briefly touches Clint's shoulder and then leaves again, the ledgers and lists they'd acquired tucked under her arm. Clint sits there on his bed, fully expecting to feel smug about it, but he doesn't. He just feels awkward and kind of sympathetic because he knows how it feels to have Nat pull a stunt like that.

The door closes. The room is dark again, save for the corner warmed by the lamp. Barnes just stands there, a statue in the gloom.

Clint wonders if it would be rude to just go back to sleep, but the moment calls for something here. He’s never been so aware of him and Barnes being in the same boat; before any potential common ground they had would be a cause of conflict, not commiseration. Not this time though. “So,” he says, still feeling awkward. “You ever wish she'd just tell you what she was thinking?”

Barnes laughs, bitter. “She used to.”

Clint fiddles with his phone, turning it over in his hands. “What… What actually happened between you two?”

He thinks Barnes is going to tell him to go fuck himself. He braces himself but then Barnes just seems to give in, his whole posture slumping. He rubs tiredly at his face. “Hydra got hold of her. Screwed with her memories. Made her forget me.”

Clint's stunned. He had no idea that that’s how it ended between them. And he has no idea what to say. He flounders for a moment then goes with, “I'll add that to the list of reasons that Hydra sucks.”

Barnes snorts again, though the laughter sounds less resentful than it did. “It's a fucking long list.”

Clint opens his phone, snaps it shut again. Irritation passes over Barnes’ face at the noise. “Will you fuckin’ quit it.”

And there is it. They were doing so well. “I'm not actually doing it to annoy you.”

“Then you're just annoying by default,” Barnes replies but it's half-hearted at best. He climbs back onto his bed. “Fuck. I hate this. Sitting around and waiting while Steve is-” He cuts himself off, and just before he rolls over to put his back to Clint, he sees the twist of his mouth which gives away exactly how much he feels like screaming right about now.

Not seeing what he can do, Clint just quietly sets his phone aside, takes his hearing aids back out and lies back down.

This time, he doesn't fall asleep in thirty seconds flat. Instead, he spends ten inexplicable minutes staring at the back of Barnes’ head before sleep claims him.

Chapter Text

Clint dreams frustrating dreams of running around New York, trying to find his bow. He repeatedly dream teleports between Avengers mansion and Starbucks, when he knows he actually needs to be checking SHIELD HQ. The subway is closed and his car won’t start so he hails a cab. His driver turns out to be Steve who knows full well everyone is looking for him, but he handwaves that and tells Clint that he’s got no idea about his bow but does know that Bucky has his quiver.

He’s jolted out of the dream by something hitting him in the face; he jerks awake wildly and the vestiges of frustration from his dream combined with the fact he’s been hit in the face by something means his first words are a sleepy and rough, “Hnnn, go fuck yourself.” 

Barnes kicks at Clint’s mattress as he passes, striding across the room and yanking the curtains back. Sunlight punches Clint in the eyes and he groans, trying to roll over and hide. His face mashes into something squishy and plastic and he jerks back in surprise, squinting until a packaged sandwich comes into view.

“Did you wake me up by throwing a sandwich at me?” he asks, sitting up. He picks the sandwich up and then looks at Barnes who is peering out of the window. “Hang on,” he says. “Why are you dressed? Wait, are you going somewhere? Wait, have you been somewhere?”

He sees Bucky’s mouth moving but can’t hear any words or lipread him because Barnes is choosing to keep scowling out of the window instead of facing him. Rude. He groans and forces himself out of bed, rolling to land on the floor so he can check his bow is safely under his bed. Thank god it’s there, not lost somewhere in New York. 

He kneels up, half slumped over the bed as he digs for his hearing aids, lost somewhere in the tangle of pillows and blankets. He eventually finds them and slips them in, and when he looks up, Barnes is standing there staring down at him.

“What?”

“How have you even survived this long?”

Clint shrugs. “Luck and a strong immune system?” 

“Oh good, for a moment I thought you were going to say skill and professionalism.”

Clint scowls. “Where have you been anyway?”

“I haven’t been anywhere.”

“You’re wearing gloves and your leather jacket smells cold. You’ve been outside.”

Bucky gives him a long look and then caves. “I went tracking some of the names I saw on the intel from the club. There’s a guy I know who is...Hydra adjacent, shall we say. He’s never actually had a pin of his own, but he’s a guy with connections. I want to go talk to him.”

Clint blinks owlishly at him. “Nat said to stay put.”

“Nat is not in charge,” Bucky replies.

A smile slowly dawns over Clint’s face. “My, my, James Buchanan. Are you going rogue?”

“Yes,” Barnes says, jaw clenching. “I’m done waiting around. We got that intel, we’re using it.”

“We?”

“Yeah, unless you’re scared,” Barnes says, the challenge clear in his tone.

Clint rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to goad me, I literally need no encouragement to disobey my superiors.”

“You said we have to play nice,” Bucky says, accusing. “Back at the meeting.”

“Play nice sometimes,” Clint says. “This is clearly a not-nice moment. This is a, Nat has tried to tell us what to do because she thinks she’s better than us, moment. Ergo, not nice.”

Bucky scowls. “Nat is better than us.”

“Only like ninety percent of the time,” Clint says, getting up and reaching for his shirt. “This might be a ten percent moment so we better take advantage of it.”

“Whatever gets you dressed and out that door,” 

Clint drags his shirt over his head, slips his new jacket on and starts gathering up his things. “Does this plan of yours involving me shooting bad guys from a high vantage point somewhere?”

“No, it involves me going to talk to someone while you watch the exits.”

“Ugh, boring,” Clint says. He goes to walk out but Bucky stops him with a metal hand on his chest, pushing him back into the room with strength that somehow surprises Clint, despite knowing that Barnes has a crackpot version of the super-soldier serum.

“If you come with me, we are officially going against orders because Nat outranks us.”

“I’m not a soldier, I’m an Avenger,” Clint says. “Rank has no meaning.”

“Yes it does.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you used to pretend to be Captain America,” Clint says. “Hey, did you notice that no-one ever listened to you then, either?” 

“Yeah but I thought that was because I’d been a brainwashed assassin that worked for the Red Room and Hydra for seventy years rather than it being issues with the rank,” Bucky says, sounding tired. Tired enough that it makes Clint pause. 

"Yeah probably the Hydra thing," he agrees, doubling back to grab the sandwich. "Can we go now?" 

"Sure," Bucky says. “Not like I’ve been working all night while you snored your ass off.”

“Hey, I’m not a super soldier,” Clint argues around a mouthful of ham and cheese. “I am merely a man and a man needs sleep.”

Bucky doesn’t answer but Clint doesn’t mind. The vibes radiating from him are determined and a little distracted but not hostile, which is frankly the best their working relationship has ever been and Clint finds himself not wanting to upset that. Not before he’s finished his sandwich, anyway.

True to Bucky’s veritable reputation as one of the most paranoid people in SHIELD, they catch two buses, walk about six miles, double back on themselves eight times and loop around two street markets before heading into an apartment block on the edge of Berlin. Of course the apartment they’re looking for is on the fifteenth floor and the graffiti-decorated elevators aren’t working.

“I’ll wait down here,” Clint says, peering up the stairwell at the endless railings, folding back on themselves in an endless dizzying spiral. “See you in a bit.”

“Incorrect,” says Bucky, glaring at the elevator like it’s offended his mother. Not that Clint’s definitely sure that Barnes ever had a mother; he sometimes suspects that Steve assembled him somewhere back in the forties from spare engine parts and dead GIs. 

“If you’d let me bring my bow, I could have shot a line into the roof and zipped us up there,” Clint says.

“Natasha was right, you are not discreet,” Bucky says, but before Clint can snap back he adds, “But I never said not to bring your bow, that was all you. Maybe you’re learning.”

Clint frowns, thinking back over the morning, and mentally curses as he realises Barnes is right. He’s going to make a smart-ass remark but Bucky has already started off up the stairs and Clint can only groan and follow. For a while it’s only the sound of their boots on the concrete, any sounds from within the apartments muffled by closed doors. To make the trek go quicker, Clint tries counting steps, then tries counting steps in his very basic Russian, then gives up and just watches Barnes, powering away about eight steps ahead. He’s got thighs of steel and not a bad ass either, Clint ponders, cocking his head as he watches said ass flex with every step. Just a pity it’s attached to someone like Barnes. 

Even as he thinks it, he remembers the not-kiss from the club and for some reason it makes his neck go uncomfortably hot. Okay, maybe it’s not just the ass. Maybe it’s the whole of Barnes’ outer shell that Clint is reluctantly appreciating, though it’s still only a somewhat pretty package over an asshole centre, so it doesn’t count for shit.

He needs Nat. Or to hang out with Jess again. And by hang out he means sleep with, because he needs to do something to get Barnes out of his system and stat, because he’s clearly got issues if he’s bypassing the greasy hair and scowl, and starting to find Barnes’ ass and jawline and eyes appealing. Even running the gauntlet of a dalliance with his ex seems a more sensible option than thinking about Bucky any more.

He’s so busy thinking that he almost runs into Bucky where he’s stopped outside a door. Bucky’s too focussed on 15a to notice Clint’s almost-stagger and flail, staring at it like he can see through the wood. 

“Shhh,” he breathes and Clint capitulates, going as still and quiet as he can.

Bucky frowns and reaches out, pushing the door with a single gloved finger. It clicks and swings open easily. That’s not a great sign but Clint can be discreet no matter what Nat says, so he keeps his mouth shut as Bucky holds his breath and edges in to the apartment. Clint steals in after him, pulling the door shut behind them and tiptoeing down the short hall. He keeps up being discreet as they search the apartment, until they get into the bathroom and find the body in the tub. The guy is wearing a bloodied pair of pyjamas and a startled expression, and his neck is clearly broken. 

“Well, fuck,” Clint says.

“Yeah, fuck,” Bucky agrees, rubbing at his forehead like he’s got a headache blooming. Can super-soldiers get headaches?

Clint peers at the guy, trying to see if he recognises him from any mission briefings or files. “Is that your Hydra adjacent friend?”

“Yep,” Bucky says as he stares at the body, and then blinks himself back into awareness. “Full sweep. Go.”

Clint’s moving and doing it before he can even think to argue or give Bucky shit about bossing him around. It makes him clench his jaw, oddly annoyed at himself. He didn’t let Steve boss him around for months, and here he is on his first goddamn op with Barnes and acting like he’s the goddamn sidekick.

He finishes his sweep and doesn’t find any bugs, but does find a passport belonging to an Ewald Weber, whose picture matches the face of the unfortunate soul in the bathtub. Whether it's his real name or not is anyone's guess, but he doesn't think twice about taking that, or the wallet he finds under the bed. He also finds a lone Cornetto in the freezer, which he doesn’t think twice about eating.

He wanders back into the bathroom where Bucky is methodically taking photos of the inside of the medicine cabinet. He glances Clint and he stares at his ice-cream in disbelief. “This is a crime scene, Barton.”

“What, is this the murder weapon?" Clint asks. "Get off my dick.”

Bucky’s mouth falls open in affront but he’s distracted by his phone buzzing in his hand. His scowl transfers seamlessly from Clint to his phone, and then he visibly blanches as he sees the name and picture on the screen.

“Natasha,” he says, staring at the screen and swallowing hard.

“Answer it,” Clint says, crunching down the last of his Cornetto cone. 

Bucky steels himself then answers the phone in Russian, because he’s a dick like that. Clint scowls and when the conversation carries in more Russian than his conversational ordering train-tickets and cussing can handle, he goes back to searching. He turns his attention to the bookcase, taking pictures of the way all the books are laid out before taking any off the shelves and flipping through. He’s accidentally immersed in a book full of historic street maps of Berlin when Bucky stomps back in.

“Don’t move the fucking books, asshole, they might be in a specific order-”

“Whoa, calm down, I took photos of the whole thing before I moved anything.”

Bucky opens his mouth and closes it again, like a furiously angry, greasy carp. Clint lifts a brow at him. “I’m not actually incompetent.”

“I know, you aren’t!” Bucky bursts out. “Natasha wouldn’t like you more if you were incompetent,” he snaps. He looks like he regrets it the moment he says it, his jaw clenching tight, eyes averted as his cheeks go a blotchy red. 

The words ring in Clint’s ears for a moment before he can properly process. “Barnes-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky says, voice thick. “She says we have to go."

Clint folds his arms across his chest. 

Bucky glares at him. "Move."

“No, I think we're gonna talk about what you just said.”

“Christ, will you drop it, you’re worse than Steve,” Bucky snarls, and then his face really falls. His eyes are too bright and it honestly looks like he’s about to break down right there in the middle of their crime scene. 

Clint’s never seen him look like that, ever. To be fair, he’s never seen him look anything other than grumpy or belligerent. Clint tries to find words. A part of him wants to press the Natasha issue, to make Barnes tell him what the hell he meant. Natasha says she doesn’t have favourites but everyone fucking knows it’s Barnes, so why is Barnes saying-

Clint makes himself stop. As loathe as he is to admit it, they’ve got bigger issues. “Barnes,” he says awkwardly. “We’ll find him. You know that, right?”

“We need to leave,” Barnes says tonelessly, shutting down into something more familiar and expressionless. “This place is compromised. They probably killed Weber the moment they worked out that we were in Berlin. He was a key player in providing resources for a lot of shady characters and they wouldn't get rid of him unless they were desperate.”

“So someone knows we’re here?” Clint asks, stomach sinking. “Someone being bad guys like eyedra-hay?” 

“Discreet,” Barnes says, but it’s more of a disillusioned huff than a real bite. “We need to go.” The words are barely past his teeth when he goes stiff all over, tensing hard before marching to the window. “Sirens,” he says to Clint. “We really need to go.”

“Here,” Clint says, thrusting the passport and wallet he found at Bucky, who takes them without question, shoving them inside his jacket. “Hang on,” he says, and detours to the bedroom, yanking open the wardrobe and pulling out a long coat. He pulls it on over his jacket, and rummages around until he finds a hat, jamming it on his head and running back to Bucky. “At least if anyone’s watching it might throw them off,” he says. “People don’t tend to recognise me at the best of times, they’ll think-”

“You’re someone different,” Bucky finishes, already at the door. “Head to the U-Bahn. Get back to the hotel. I’ll meet you there.”

“Copy,” Clint says and then Bucky’s gone, shoving out the apartment door and vaulting the bannister. Clint’s heart leaps into his throat but trusts that Barnes hasn’t ended up as a pancake in the lobby; he’s a professional and knows what he’s doing, most of the time. 

As does Clint. In a stark contrast to Barnes bat-out-of-hell exit strategy, Clint shoves his hands in the pocket of his borrowed coat and meanders down the stairs, acting as a weary local who is resigned to the fact the elevator will never be fixed. He hears the sirens when he’s on floor seven, and on the second floor he hears commotion at the doors. He passes two police-officers on the first floor stairs and breathes an internal sigh of relief as they march straight past him.

The relief lasts for about three seconds because that's how long it takes for two more police officers to appear. Clint stops abruptly because these guys are head to toe in black - including heavy riot-gear helmets that cover half their faces - and are packing some serious firepower. 

"Halt," one barks at Clint, who immediately puts his hand in the air. These guys look like the Spezialeinsatzkommando, the Berlin equivalent of SWAT, and Clint knows that they are not to be fucked with. 

"I'm stopping, I'm stopping," Clint says, alarmed by how quickly their semi-automatics have been raised. "I'm here with SHIELD. I'm an Avenger?" 

There's a voice from further up the stairwell; one of the police officers who had previously run past has returned, frowning as he takes in the scene on the first floor. 

"Ich wusst nicht, dass andere Teams gebeten worden waren, zu antworten," he says slowly. The two SEK officers glance at each other, then one raises his rifle and guns the police officer down. 

Clint lets out a strangled yelp as the guy falls, blood spattering the stairwell. The second officer rattles off something into his radio and then turns to Clint, now speaking in placid midwestern tones, utterly devoid of any European accent. "Move. Hands in the air. No shouting, now."

"You're not even German, are you?" Clint says, oddly betrayed by the fact. 

"Move," the guy insists. 

"Just shoot him," the other adds, impatient. 

"No we'll take him to the boss. He's an Avenger, he's worth a fortune. They might add him to lot twelve. Or at least the bow," the second says and looks back to Clint. "Move before I shoot you, or before the rest of the police get here because I just told them that you killed one of their officers."

“Let me guess, Hydra?” Clint asks. “Or Hydra adjacent?” 

The man makes a truly irritated noise and marches towards him. Clint’s fingers twitch automatically, reaching for a bow that isn’t there, and he mentally curses and readjusts into hand-to-hand mode. The guy lifts his gun and Clint decides ‘fuck it,’ ducking and tackling the guy, hitting him hard in the midriff and sending them toppling down the stairs. They hit the landing hard in a tangle of limbs, hard enough to knock the breath out of them both.

There’s a shout and more gunfire and out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees the second police officer return and fall in quick succession but he’s preoccupied with the guy currently trying to strangle him with a wire he pulled from one of his ten million tac-vest pockets. Clint gets a hand between his neck and the garrotte and elbows him hard in the face. 

“Fuck you and fuck whoever you work for,” Clint bites out, kicking back and trying to get the fucking guy off him. The guy has arms and a leg wrapped around him, clinging on in the world’s most unwelcome piggy-back. 

“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” the man hisses back, voice staining with the effort of keeping Clint pinned in place.

“Have you met me?” Clint pants. He manages to get hold of one of the guys fingers, pulling it back, back, back until the guy grunts in pain and his grip lessens-

“Just hold him still!” The second guy yells and Clint looks up, barely in time to see the butt of a semi-automatic swinging hard towards his face. ‘Oh, this looks bad,’ he thinks and then there’s pain, then nothingness. 

Clint wakes up in a cage in the back of a police van, and his first thought is ‘ouch,’ followed quickly by ‘Oh for fucks sake, I’ve been kidnapped, Barnes is not going to be happy.’ His head is pounding and to add to the indignity of being kidnapped by fake SWAT he’s been stripped out of all of his clothes, except his underwear. His hands are cuffed in front of him with the sort of heavy duty cuffs that SHIELD use, which is yet another reason that today sucks. He’d grade it at a definite F minus. The only saving grace is that they’ve not confiscated his hearing aids.

He’s got no idea how long he’s been in here. If he’s been knocked out for a while they could be pretty much anywhere in Europe. He doesn’t know the exact distances but he knows it’s not like the States; an hour or two of driving can get you across like ten different countries. Oh man, he better not end up in Budapest again. 

“Hey,” he shouts, reaching up to bang his cuffs against the metal partition between him and the driver. “Hey, fake-German assholes!”

There’s no response. Clint huffs and starts looking around, trying to see if there are any cameras anywhere that he can disable and pull the wires out of-

The van swerves sharply like the driver has reacted last-minute to avoid a pothole or something, sending Clint thumping into the side of the cage. “Hey! What are you, a cab driver?” He yells and then as if in response, the van lurches and swerves again, and this time it doesn’t stop. It’s almost as if it’s hit a kerb and burst a tyre and is losing control, or if someone with a sniper rifle and good aim has deliberately burst the tyres-

The van hits something hard and grinds to a halt. Clint braces himself, waiting for either more movement or terrible things to happen. He can’t hear shit through the walls of this fucking van, and he would really like to know what the hell just happened, and if he’s going to have to brace himself for fighting in his boxers.

Finally, he hears something. The screech of metal on metal which is never a pleasant sound, and then a thump as the back doors of the van are wrenched open, revealing a very familiar silhouette. 

“Come on,” says Bucky, impatient. “Don’t just sit there.”

Clint attempts to scramble out of the van, but his legs won’t co-operate and he’s still a little off kilter from being bashed in the face. He ends up sinking to the asphalt in a weird not-quite fall, squinting in the sunlight and trying to get his bearings. They’re on some sort of abandoned industrial area and the van is pressed up against the concrete wall of a warehouse. The engine is hissing and the front windshield is smashed. He can’t see either of his fake-German captors.

“They dead?”

“Yeah.”

“We still in Germany?”

“Yeah. Outskirts of Berlin,” Bucky tells him. “You weren’t gone long. How did they even get you in the van? What happened?"

Clint scowls, staggers to his feet. “I didn’t need you to rescue me.” 

“No, but I thought I’d speed things up a little,” Bucky says, grabbing the back of Clint’s arm as Clint lists sideways, still slightly dizzy. “Tell me what happened." 

"Police arrived. Then these guys. I thought they were SEK, you know, like SWAT? But they were American, and they shot the police officers. And they were gonna shoot me but one said they'd add me and my stuff to a lot?" 

"A lot," Bucky repeats, confused. 

"Yeah, I don't get it either," Clint admits. "You think this is all connected? Steve missing, and that guy dead, and the SEK being compromised?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I don't know. I do know that we're compromised. The apartment building was bugged, not the apartment itself. They knew the moment we stepped into the lobby. And as well as Hydra or Hydra adjacent knowing we’re here, the police want you in connection with the murder of two police officers and the WSC want me to hand myself in.”

“What?” Clint tries spitting the blood taste out of his mouth. “The WSC?”

Bucky swings his backpack around and pulls out a bottle of water, handing it to Clint. “Yeah. The German Special Protection Service don’t like me much. I’m meant to be tagged whenever I’m in the country.”

“Well that would have been good to know three days ago.”

“I’m not letting them tag me,” Bucky says fiercely. “I don’t need anyone keeping track of me, not anymore.”

“Whoa, okay, okay,” Clint says. “But the point stands that we’re being watched by the bad guys, we’re now both technically considered criminals by the good guys, and at least one branch of law enforcement has been infiltrated by Hydra or Hydra adjacent.”

“And Natasha and Carter are going to murder us for disobeying orders and making a mess of this entire op.”

“Murder us? No,” Clint says, seesawing his hand and trying to remember the last time Carter threatened him, and how seriously he took said threat. “Bench us? Probably. Make demeaning comments about our capabilities as Avengers? Definitely.”

“And Steve is still missing,” Bucky adds, frustrated. "This mission is FUBAR."

“You’re telling me,” Clint says, raking his hands through his hair. “All my shit is at the hotel. My fucking bow-”

“I have it,” Bucky interrupts. “Don’t worry. I have all of our things. They’re in the car.”

“You have a car?”

“No, I didn’t say it was my car, I said the car.”

“You stole a car?”

“It’s a rental.”

“That you stole.”

“You want a lift or not?” Bucky asks, walking towards the crashed van and wrenching open the passenger door with his metal hand. He leans in so Clint can only see him from the ass down, which is admittedly the half Clint prefers to look at. “And do you want your clothes back or are you carrying on naked?”

“I’m not naked,” Clint protests, because somehow that’s important. He takes a step towards the van and then his shirt comes sailing through the air, hitting him in the face. He drags it away and then hastily goes to Barnes, before the asshole can start throwing his boots.

Barnes slithers out of the van with Clint's clothes balled up in his arms. His eyes dart down and then back up to Clint's face, so quick that anyone else would have missed it. “Get dressed then,” Bucky all but barks at him, thrusting the bundle of clothes  at him and determinedly looking up at the sky. He’s going pink across his cheekbones again, a dull flush that has no business being on a cyborg super-soldier’s face.

"You were in the army, how does casual nudity bother you," Clint grumbles, eventually tiring of Bucky’s nun in a strip club act as he's hopping from foot to foot trying to get his socks on. Barnes looks at him, startled, and Clint's got no idea what put that look on his face but he's not got time to figure it out because his goddamn phone is ringing, thankfully still accounted for, shoved deep in the back pocket of his jeans. He’s going to throw the thing in the first river he finds. He doubles down on his resolute to drown the damn thing as he sees the caller ID, trapping the phone between his shoulder and ear as he sits down to tug his boots back on, ignoring Bucky's impatient hovering just behind him. 

“Hey Nat.”

“Get out of Berlin,” she says immediately. “James has managed to compromise you both by running around thinking he knows best.”

Clint glances up at Bucky, feeling mildly guilty because he encouraged James to go off piste on their mission orders. Only mildly though, because more of him is grateful that Nat is mad at Barnes and not him.  “Yeah, we know. I’ve been framed for the murder of two police officers, the WSC know Barnes is here and some bad guys just tried to kidnap me.”

Natasha goes very quiet for a moment. “This is bad, Clint.”

“I know.”

“Really bad.”

“We know!” Clint insists. “We are not taking this lightly, Nat!”

“Okay,” Nat says, and her voice pulls away, presumably talking to someone on her end of the line, or maybe even on another line altogether. Clint sometimes imagines her with eight legs, a cell phone in each. “Clint, you there?”

“Yep.”

“Put me on speaker so James knows the plan too.”

“I can hear you anyway,” Bucky says tonelessly, staring off into the distance. Clint puts the phone on speaker anyway, because Nat told him to and they’re in enough trouble for ignoring her.

“Stark is going to remotely pilot your quinjet home, the one Clint left. As far as the WSC and anyone digging will be concerned, you and James are on it.”

"Why can't we be on it?"

"Because someone is trying to kidnap or kill you," Natasha says curtly. "They already killed Weber. If they're willing to kill him to tie off a loose end, I don't think they'll hesitate to blow you out of the sky."

Clint's mouth twists unhappily. “Fine, but how will we actually get home?”

“James, remember Sergei?” Natasha says, and Bucky grunts in acknowledgement. “I’m cashing in our favours to get you passage home.”

“No way,” Bucky protests. “That’ll take days. Steve might not have days-”

“I think you are underestimating just how screwed you are,” Natasha snaps, and then the sting vanishes from her voice, going as soft and gentle as it ever does. “All intel points to Steve still being alive, mostly because Hydra haven’t made any global announcements about his death.”

Bucky blanches. Clint gets it - putting Steve and any words connected to ‘dead’ in the same sentence is something he’s been trying very hard not to do.

“Clint, you make sure James gets on the boat and stays on it.”

“I’m not his keeper,” Clint complains and then his brain catches up. “Wait, boat? Did you say boat?!” But of course Natasha hates him and has already hung up.

 Clint stares at his phone for a while and then looks across at Bucky. “Boat?”

“Yes. Boat,” Bucky says, and Clint groans, slumping down in his seat and wishing he could rewind time and stop Steve ever fucking going to Germany. The idiot is still missing, he and Bucky are potentially about to be murdered by Hydra and now it sounds like he’s got to catch a boat back home. The boat itself isn’t the problem, it’s the idea of having to share a cabin with Bucky goddamn Barnes for the whoever many days it’ll take to cross the entire Atlantic.

Yep. This mission is definitely an F for FUBAR. 

In hindsight, Clint should have guessed that they weren’t going to be travelling Royal Caribbean, or even on a Cunard liner. The fact that they’re having to stay off the grid should really have clued him in. As it stands though, after four hours of Barnes’ trademark paranoid driving, a bus and a half hour march, he finds himself standing on some industrial pier in Hamburg, staring up at a container ship the size of the Chrysler building. 

“Aw, boat, no,” he says.

“Not exactly a Cunard-White Star,” Bucky agrees.

“God you’re old,” Clint says and Bucky just huffs at him and goes to speak to an approaching sailor. Is that the right word? Cargo-man? Container wrangler? Whatever he is, he clearly knows Bucky because they’re nodding at each other and having a conversation that Clint hasn’t a hope of catching, partly because it's in Russian and partly because the range on his hearing aids is good but not that good. He’s been wearing them for too long as well, and knowing he’s gonna have to take them out to let his ear canals breathe isn’t making him feel any less tense and grumpy.

Movement catches his eye; Bucky’s waving him over. He goes over, ignoring the curious looks Bucky’s friend is giving him. “Come on,” Bucky says. “We’re now officially stowaways.”

Clint follows Bucky and the Russian as they walk along the edge of the dock towards a set of stairs that look impossibly narrow and steep. “What, like Tom Hanks?”

“No, that’s Castaway, not Stowaway.”

“Wait, you know Castaway?”

“I’m a hundred and two, I’m not dead,” Bucky says. “I know some things.”

“What, like you know dubious Russian sailors who are willing to smuggle us aboard a cargo ship in the dead of night?”

“Yeah, that and Tom Hanks IMDB back catalogue.”

Clint pauses. “Did you just make a joke?”

“No-one's laughing, so clearly not.”

Clint’s mouth twitches in a not-quite smile. “I would have laughed a bit if I wasn’t so...surprised. Let's go with surprised.”

Bucky makes an aggravated sound in the back of his throat. “Can we just...not start arguing.”

“I’m not arguing.”

“You we’re picking at me for making a joke!”

“I wasn’t! I just told you I was surprised!”

Bucky stops dead, turning to glare at him. Expression half-hidden in the shadow of the hulking ship, he looks dangerous in the way a trapped animal looks dangerous. Tightly coiled fury and a whole lot of fear. “I know you don’t like me, okay? But I’m not - I’m not as fucking awful as you make out. I have friends who like me-”

“I know, I know,” Clint interrupts, a little taken aback. Jeez, what nerve has he hit this time? “I know you do. I wasn’t surprised that you can make a joke, more that you’d do it to me .”

Bucky doesn’t reply. All there is is the faintest sounds of metallic groaning as the ship shifts in her moorings, the faintest lap of the waves against her hull. 

“Oh,” Barnes finally says, sounding oddly small, and then he abruptly turns away, marching past the Russian who has been standing some eight feet away, looking awkward. 

“Friend,” the Russian says, and gestures for Clint to get moving. “Please.”

Clint takes the hint and follows; Bucky is halfway up the narrow stairs, marching relentlessly even though he’s carrying a duffel bag full of bottled water and weapons. Clint’s hoping that they don’t need them, but judging by how the mission is going so far, he wouldn’t bet against it.

They end up in a literal container that’s holding a vintage Mercedes-Benz, held meticulously in place by an entire web of thick straps. Clint gives an appreciative whistle when he sees it, but the Russian makes a stern noise and wags his finger at Clint, obviously telling him off in Russian.

“He says don’t touch the car,” Bucky tells him. “He says a very rich American is offering good tips for the car getting home in one piece. If anything happens to the car, he’ll make you pay for it.”

“Sure he will. Has he seen the state of my bank balance?”

“I’m pretty sure he’ll still make you pay for it,” Bucky says. Clint wants to make a comment about Bucky’s friend probably being part of the Russian mob but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Bucky seems oddly defensive about his friends right now, though considering his best one is MIA, Clint guesses he can understand. 

Bucky’s Russian friend brings them two bedrolls and two sleeping bags that look like they’ve seen better days, and a box full of food. Bucky thanks the guy in Russian and presses a hundred dollar bill at him, which he tries to refuse. Bucky says something insistent and apparently meaningful because the guy relents and takes the money, departing with a sloppy American salute before pushing the doors of the container closed.

“Did he just lock us in?” Clint asks, already poking through the box of rations. 

“No, they’re not locked, but we can’t just be wandering around as we feel like. Sergei’ll let us know when it’s safe to come out.”

“Have you done this before?” 

“A few times,” Bucky says and then pauses. “The Red Room...before they sold me to Hydra. They used to ship me all around the world for missions.”

“They sent their best assassin around the world in a shipping crate?”

“Well, I was in cryofreeze chamber, so it’s not like I’d know,” Bucky says, and then changes the subject. “We’ve got about an hour before the ship departs. Then six days of sailing.”

“Six days,” Clint repeats. “Six days locked in a metal box together, with only stale rations and a bag full of weapons.”

“Not ideal, but we’ll survive,” Barnes says and pauses. Clint waits him out, and sure enough he speaks again. “I know...Steve is important to you too. I know you’ll do all you can to help me get him back.”

“Well, yeah,” Clint says and it’s not enough but it seems to be for Bucky. He nods curtly and then preoccupies himself with straightening out his bedroll and checking through his duffel-bag armoury. Well, if it’s enough for Bucky, then it’s enough for Clint, who goes back to checking out all the food and trying not to think about Bucky being frozen in a cabinet and shipped over the world, probably shown less care and consideration than a vintage car.

The journey goes without a hitch until around twenty hours in, when the boat hits some mild swells and Bucky hits a level of seasick that Clint didn't think existed outside of episodes of Tom and Jerry. Bucky throws up into the emergency-toilet-bucket more times than Clint thought a person could throw up without turning themselves inside-out. It’s not pleasant, being stuck in an enclosed space with a man who a) hates him and b) seems determined to set the land-speed record for hurling, but Clint can concede that this isn’t Bucky’s fault. Bucky would probably rather remove his arm than show weakness in front of Clint, and he certainly looks pretty weak right now, pale and sweating and breathing like he’s just run a marathon in full combat gear.

And Clint’s not a monster, and he knows what he’d do if any of the other Avengers were in this situation. Slightly wary, lest his helping gets misconstrued as pity or something patronising, he edges over to where Bucky is sitting with his back against the wall, eyes closed and throat working convulsively. 

“Here,” Clint says, holding out a bottle of water. Barnes takes it with what Clint thinks is a grateful nod, cracking the top off and downing half of it in several gulps. “So, is it all transport that makes you sick?”

“Only boats when there’s rough seas or planes when there’s a maniac flying,” Barnes says.

“So, okay, you’re welcome,” Clint says, and settles in to sit next to Barnes, leaning back against the side of the crate with his shoulder pressed to Bucky’s. He glances over to Bucky and is ready to rib him some more about his inability to handle waves but the words die in his throat. Bucky has his metal hand over his face covering his eyes and his jaw is clenched tight.

“You okay?”

Bucky nods, hand still over his eyes. “Steve used to jab me all the time about getting car sick,” he says. “Back in Normandy. He’s a worse driver than you.”

“Where do you think I learned it?” Clint says and Bucky snorts out a noise that is either derisive scorn or a laugh. 

“Steve’s the only one who knows-” Bucky begins, but breaks off before he finishes his sentence. 

Clint rolls his eyes. So Bucky’s back on his ‘Steve and Bucky are friends in a way you can’t even understand,’ kick. It’s all a bit teenage girl for Clint’s tastes; it’s like saying the bond between him and Nat is incomparable. He knows he and Nat have a bond but he’s not deluded enough to think it’s so special that no-one else has it. Hell, the fact that Barnes has something comparable is what makes Clint hate him, most days. “Knows…?”

Bucky doesn’t answer and Clint assumes that he’s just ignoring Clint like he usually does, but then after a silence of at least a minute he finally says, “What the war was like.” Bucky finally lowers his hand. He looks exhausted. “It’s not like running missions for SHIELD, or the Avengers. It’s...huge.”

Clint wants to say 'that’s what she said,' so much that he thinks he might die, but the conversation has just leapt sideways into subject matter that even Clint can’t find it in himself to be disrespectful about. 

“It’s so relentless and you forget how to see the big picture,” Bucky says. He’s talking so quietly, it’s almost like Clint’s not even there. “You get stuck in a fucking foxhole and all you’ve got is a sniper rifle and three rounds and you just don’t want anything to happen to the morons stuck in there with you. Fuck everything else. You forget why you’re supposed to be doing it.”

His tips his head back. “And when you see some of the things that human beings can do to each other.” His gaze goes hard, eyes meeting Clint’s with an obvious challenge. “You ever seen a concentration camp, Barton?”

And suddenly there’s nothing funny about any of this at all. “No,” Clint says quietly. “I haven’t.”

“I was fucked up before I was the Winter Soldier,” Bucky says. “Steve knows that. He saw it all too.”

“I,” Clint begins, but gives up when he finds he doesn’t know what to say. It’s such a fragile moment between them and Clint’s all too aware of his easily it could break. Why he’s not interested in smashing it to pieces is as inexplicable as why Bucky instigated it in the first place. 

“Okay. I get it. Well I don’t, because like you said...I wasn’t there. But I'm starting to get why you and Steve need each other.”

Bucky nods slowly. “If anything has happened to him, I’m going to kill everyone who so much as knew about it.”

Clint nods. “I’ll be right behind you,” he says and they fall into silence, still sitting shoulder to shoulder in the darkness.

Luckily the sea calms itself down within a few hours. Sergei lets them out for a toilet break and to stretch their legs, and gives them a pack of playing cards decorated with a bunch of rather busty ladies who Clint assumes are porn stars. Bucky takes the deck like it’s a live grenade, shooting sceptical looks between Clint and Sergei’s none-the-wiser smiling face.

“I am not playing snap against you,” Clint says flatly and Bucky’s mouth twitches.

“You know casino?”

“Do I know casino? Of course I know casino. What sort of special operations agent would I be if I didn’t know time-killing card games?”

Bucky nods, still staring at the pack of cards. Either he’s hitting a 404 error about the naked ladies or the idea of doing something remotely friendly with Clint.

Clint takes pity on him. “You wanna play?”

Bucky nods. “Okay,” he says, and sits down beside the Mercedes-Benz, pulling the card out of their battered packet. “You want to shuffle?”

“It’s all yours,” Clint says, and sits down opposite him. “Hey, what would Nat say if she could see us now?”

Bucky starts shuffling the cards, both hands equally deft. “She’s been telling me to get to know you for months,” he says.

“You’ve been an asshole for months!”

“Well, you didn’t make it easy,” Bucky says. 

“No,” Clint admits. “Guess I didn’t.”

They fall quiet, the only sound the soft swish and click of the cards as Bucky shuffles them. Clint’s a little mesmerised by the metal fingers, watching how the plates shift, the dark spaces between the dull vibranium. He watches until Bucky’s fingers go still, and then when nothing else happens he blinks himself back into the moment, looking up at Bucky’s face.

Bucky looks back. “What do you think Steve would say if he could see us now?”

And Clint can’t help but grin. “He’d either say something profound about the spirit of teamwork and the Avengers being family...or he’d say ‘about fuckin’ time.’”

“Yeah he would,” Bucky says quietly as he starts to deal the cards, and his smile is small and sad, but it’s a smile in Clint’s presence nonetheless, so it’s gotta count for something.

They manage four whole days in some sort of mutually-assured-survival mode, navigating around each other in a weird forced tolerance. They sleep in shifts which helps, seeing as they only have to actually deal with each other for eight hours a day instead of more. 

There are even two entire moments when things are… okay. When Clint forgets he's on mission with someone he hates and it feels more like just being on mission. Namely when Bucky trades him a peanut-butter flavored protein bar for the gross coconut one he ended up with, and when Clint realises with utter delight that they haven't yet played 'Buckeye casino, it's made for us, Barnes, we have to play it!'. Bucky stares at him for a solid ten seconds before throwing all the naked lady cards in his face, saying 'how about Hawkeye 52 card pickup' which is a terrible joke but still. It's a joke and it counts. 

However by day four, they’ve run out of card games to play, Clint’s phone is on 6% battery so he’s on a self-imposed Tetris ban, and the sea is just rocky enough to make Bucky feel nauseous and irritable as all fuck. Clint knows they’re getting ratty with each other but by this point he’s honestly spoiling for a fight. He's got no way of blowing off steam: he can't go shooting, he can't go out and get a beer, can't even go out and get laid. Or y'know, get shot down trying.

And so when Bucky asks to send a message off of Clint's phone, he tells him no, but in a way that is possibly considered impolite. Bucky rears back like Clint has swung for him, clearly shocked. 

"I'm on six percent battery, use your own."

"I can't, Sergei has taken it to charge it and I need to message Nat."

"Jesus, you’re like a broken record. When are you going to fucking get over it? You two were a couple like thirty years ago, it's over."

Bucky's face clouds over like a thunderstorm. "This is about the mission."

"Sure. Then why aren't you checking in with Sharon?" 

"Because she doesn't fucking like me, okay?" Bucky snaps. "She tolerates me for Steve's sake."

And Clint kind of thinks that's not true but whatever, it's not his job to soothe Barnes' bruised ego and low self-esteem. "If it's about the mission it shouldn't matter." 

Bucky steps closer. "Give me the phone."

"Fuck off."

"Give me the phone!" 

Barnes grabs him by the front of his shirt, yanking him close, but almost immediately stops. His head snaps to the side, hair whipping Clint in the face. Ugh, Clint thinks, screwing up his face in distaste. Gross . 

"You hear that?" Bucky lets go of Clint, distracted enough to abandon the argument. 

"Of course I can't hear it," Clint says, pulling his collar straight. "What is it?" 

"Banging. Tapping. I think it's coming from the next container over."

“What, like the crew moving shit around or something else?”

“Something else,” Bucky says, and they both immediately start collecting their weapons. Clint straps his quiver on and grabs his bow. Bucky comes out of the duffel bag with a Glock complete with silencer in one hand, and a mean looking Bowie knife in the other. He signals to Clint who nods and edges forwards to unbolt the container.

They step out into the night, rain drizzling down and making all the metal containers shine in the moonlight. There’s a few lights on the ship, punctuating the darkness at intervals, but not enough to properly illuminate their way. Beyond the rails, the ocean swells and rolls, black in the scant light. It's like some huge heaving behemoth, something powerful and unstoppable that they're at the mercy of. It makes their huge cargo ship seem like a plaything. Clint's never had any strong feelings about the ocean before but he promptly decides that he hates it and would do pretty much anything to get his feet back on solid ground. Considering how seasick he's been, Bucky probably feels the same.  

Their shoes squeak on the wet metal of the deck, barely audible over the crashing of the waves. Bucky signals to him and Clint steals after him, ignoring the way his skin and shirt are already getting wet with rain, trickling uncomfortably down the back of his neck. They edge up to the crate that’s pressed to theirs and Bucky leans in, pressing his ear to it.

“There’s people in there,” he mouths to Clint. 

Clint frowns, fingers pulling restlessly at his bowstring. “Should we get Sergei?”

Bucky hesitates and Clint understands that even though he and Natasha billed Sergei as a friend, there’s still not trust there. There rarely is, for people like Bucky and Nat.

“Open it,” he says.

Bucky gives the container a wary look. “How about you open it?”

“No, I’m the long range expert,” Clint says, taking a step back. “You open it.”

“We’re both long rage experts,” Bucky points out.

“Yeah but I’m the better long range expert.”

“What, you saying your hand to hand isn’t good enough to handle whatever comes out of here?”

“It’s probably a bunch of scared asylum seekers or something,” Clint says. “Or a bear. If it’s a bear, you can fight it.”

“You’re impossible,” Bucky says, but he’s stowing the knife in a sheath on his thigh and stepping forward to examine the container. He grabs the bar and twists and the doors clunk open, clearly unlocked.

Bucky shoves the door open and springs back, and Clint whips around with his bow raised, ready to shoot if needs be-

“What the hell?” Bucky asks, flummoxed. Clint lowers his bow because the container isn’t full of wild animals, but around twelve young girls, all hopping down from bunk beds and crowding back into the corner of the container, their scared faces visible in the lamps hung crookedly from the roof. They can’t be older than eight or nine - Clint’s no expert on kids but he knows a) they shouldn’t be kept in shipping containers and b) they should definitely have adult supervision when they’re this little.

“Hey, are you okay?” Clint asks, stunned. “It’s okay, we won’t hurt you.”

The girls are all still backing away. They’re all too skinny, Clint’s sure of it. Fuck, have they just accidentally stumbled on some human trafficking hell? This mission no longer has a failing grade, it’s so FUBAR that it no longer even gets a grade. Though if they have managed to accidentally rescue twelve girls from a human trafficking ring, that’s definitely a silver lining.

“You speak English?” Clint asks, stepping forwards and crouching down when the girls all shift uneasily at his approach. He sets his bow down, holding his hands up to show they’re empty. “It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re Avengers, we’re here to help.”

“Barton,” Bucky says cautiously. “This isn’t right.”

“Of course it’s not fucking right,” Clint snaps. “Look at them.”

One of the girls steps forwards, tugging nervously at the end of her ponytail. “Avenger,” she says in heavily accented Russian. 

Clint nods. “Yeah, that’s us! Barnes, ask her if she’s okay.”

“ты в порядке?” Bucky asks and the girls eyes snap to him. She nods and then carries on stepping towards Clint. Behind her, the other girls shift, edging closer, tiptoeing around the ends of the bunks, eyes fixed on Clint.

“Clint, back away,” Bucky says sharply.

“Are you seriously scared of a little girl?” Clint asks, too surprised to be scornful. He holds a hand out and the girl hesitates and then takes it, slipping her tiny hand into his. “See, she’s fine.”

“Clint!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clint turns in disbelief to face Bucky, and as he does, he feels two tiny hands clamp down around his wrist, nails digging in. “Wha-” he manages, and as he turns back the girl headbutts him right in the face.

“Fuck!” He falls back as furious screaming erupts from the container, and then they’re on him, three of the girls twisting his arms around, one going for his neck.

There’s the pop and hiss of silenced gunshots and more screams, and Clint manages to shove the kids off of him, grabbing his bow and and wrenching it out of the hands of another. Bucky is suddenly next to him, holding one girl literally by the scruff of her neck. Her feet are pedalling at the air and she’s snatching her hands around to try and grab his wrist. 

“стоп!” Bucky snaps, and the girl stops kicking, just hanging there in the air. The other girls all shrink back into the corner, scowling and baring their teeth. All twelve are accounted for which means Bucky must have gone for warning shots only, not that Clint ever actually thought he’d have shot a bunch of kids. Even the kind that try and murder you, Clint thinks darkly, wiping his bloody nose on the back of his wrist.

Bucky snarls something else in Russian and drops the girl to the floor. She lands like a cat and whips around in a fighting stance, but Bucky simply points his gun right between her eyes. “I have shot plenty of Widows,” he says calmly, and then his tone turns somewhat derisive. “Fully grown ones.” She glares at him, holds her ground for a beat and then ducks her head, backing up into the corner.

“Barton,” Bucky says. “Back away.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint says, climbing to his feet and backing swiftly out of the container. Bucky hauls the doors shut and twists the bar back into place, just in time for more screaming and the thumps of twelve tiny bodies trying to claw their way through the metal doors.

“Oh god,” Clint says, staring at the container in horror. “Was that?”

“Yep.”

“Twelve tiny Natashas?!”

“Twelve Widows, yes,” Bucky says. “You’re lucky they’re only small. And not very well trained. If they’d known better they’d have gained your trust then killed you when your guard was down.”

Clint backs away from the container, which is starting to sound less like it’s full of girls and more like it’s full of angry velociraptors. “Can they get out of there? If they get out I might cry.”

Bucky gives him an exasperated look but does step forwards to bend the bar on the doors so it won’t open. “There. Now will you please give me your phone, I think we should message Nat.”

“Seconded,” Clint says, digging his hand in his pocket-

There’s a crack and a ping, a spark of light as a bullet cracks off the corner of the container, right above Clint’s head. “Fuck!” He helps, and ducks away from the direction of the shot. Bucky shoves at his back, pushing him along as they try and get clear.

“Who the hell is trying to kill us now?” Clint asks, pressing his side to the container they’re hiding behind, nocking an arrow.

“I assume someone knows there’s a crate of Widows on board,” Bucky says grimly. “They won’t be happy we’ve found them.”

“You think Sergei knows they’re there?”

“Sergei’s an idiot but he’s not stupid enough to hide us in the container next to the one full of Widows,” Bucky says, and scowls as another bullet cracks overhead. “Really? They obviously don’t know who they’re shooting at.”

Clint laughs, even as he hears faint shouting somewhere further down the boat. Several floodlights clunk on, obviously trying to flush them out. “Clearly not. What do you think our odds are?”

“Eighteen crew,” Bucky says. “Let’s assume all of them are trying to kill us.”

“Eighteen bad guys and twelve murderous girls who may or may not be able to break out of a shipping container,” Clint says. “Piece of cake.”

“If the Widows get involved, don’t hesitate,” Bucky warns him. “They won’t.”

“Non lethal shots,” Clint compromises. “They’re kids. They deserve a second chance.”

Bucky looks at him then, really looks at him like he’s just seen something in Clint that he wasn’t expecting. “Obviously,” he says. “You take port and I’ll take starboard.”

“What?”

“You go left and I’ll go right,” Bucky says. “Don’t get killed or eaten by children,” he says and then he’s gone. 

“You are not funny!” Clint yells and then pushes away from the container. He runs the length of a stack and spots a guy with a freaking AK-12 in hand, so drops him without a second thought. He takes off again, spotting a ladder running up the superstructure that houses the cabins and kitchens and navigation room and whatever the fuck else a cargo ship needs. He's not that fussy about what it contains to be honest, he's more picking it because it's the highest point on the ship, save for the cranes. He heads up without a second thought and gets most of the way up before there’s the clatter of bullets to his left and way too close for comfort. He hauls himself onto the roof and yelps as he comes nose to nose with a burly sailor with a rifle in hand - he instinctively whips his bow around and cracks the guy full across the face, sending him staggering sideways. It’s enough time for Clint to fire off an arrow, taking the guy out for good. He rolls him off the edge of the roof just to be sure, wincing as the body thuds against a satellite dish on the way down to the deck. 

“Two down,” he pants, standing on the edge of the roof and scanning the maze of containers that cover the deck, squinting in the driving rain. Shit, he wishes they had comms; he’s got no idea where Barnes is and he doesn’t want to accidentally shoot him. 

He stays in position, watching and waiting. Soon enough he spots a guy running along the deck with a gun in hand. He grabs an arrow but before he can loose it the guy just crumples, hitting the deck on his face and not getting up again. A pool of blood starts to spread out beneath him, so Clint concludes that Barnes got him good.

The minutes pass and no more guys try and shoot him, and no tiny terrors crawl up the side of the cabin like that girl from the ring. He’s just about had enough of the rain and is considering coming down from his perch to go and find Barnes when his phone rings. It’s Bucky, which mystifies Clint for a moment because he certainly never programmed his number into his phone. 

“Barnes. You alive?”

“Alive and kicking,” Bucky confirms. “How many did get you get?”

“Two,” Clint says. 

“Okay so that’s six hostile agents eliminated, two captured.”

“You took out six bad guys?! You’ve been gone like twenty minutes!"

“I took out four, Sergei and the crew did the rest.”

“Oh wow, so your friends are the good guys. Nice one.”

“Good guys but not smart enough to notice a human trafficking operation aboard their ship," Bucky says dryly. "Come inside. We're on the bridge."

"The what?" 

"The bit where the wheel is, where the captain works."

"Oh yeah, like Star Trek. See you in five."

Clint climbs his way back aboard and finds Bucky with Sergei and a dazed looking man that he assumes is the captain. The guy jumps a mile when Clint comes in, clearly rattled by the night's events.

"I am Captain Vasiliev," he says, pulling himself together. "You must be another stowaway."

"Uh yeah, but the good kind," Clint tries with a hopeful smile. 

"Don't worry, we were just discussing how he's going to let it slide seeing as we're not going to report him to the Avengers as being part of the human trafficking operation," Bucky says easily, then jerks his head towards the door. "You want to come and question one of the bad guys?" 

"It’s not going to be like Natasha questioning, is it?" Clint says, already following. 

"Depends how talkative he is," Bucky shrugs, leading the way to a cabin where a man is tied up and gagged, looking none too pleased. Clint watches as Bucky unties the guy then pins him to the wall of the cabin with several knives through his clothes; his arms and legs end up spread out like he’s a Russian sailor version of the Vitruvian man. When he’s done, Bucky goes to stand next to Clint, folding his arms across his chest.

“Why do you have a crate full of Widows?” he asks, then repeats the question in Russian. The guy glares balefully at him and Bucky sighs. “Barton. A warning shot between his feet,” he says and Clint obliges with a grin.

Bucky repeats the question and the guy spits onto the ground. “Go get the arrow,” Bucky says to Clint. “Then fire it around...six inches higher.”

Clint does as he’s asked, the arrow sinking into the wall between the guy’s shins. He’s remarkably slow on the uptake; it takes three more questions and for the arrow to be landing between his thighs for him to suddenly go pale.

Bucky asks the question again and the guy says, “Nyet,” in a wavering voice. Bucky sighs, nods to Clint. Clint retrieves the arrow, nocks it and is drawing back when they guy cracks. He starts babbling in terrified Russian and Clint pauses. Bucky asks a few clipped questions and the guy nods frantically.

“They’re not Hydra, or Red Room. They're middle men,” he says slowly. “They’re being paid to ship them to the States to be sold at an auction. All the big players will be there. Hydra. AIM. Some private buyers.”

“Well that doesn’t sound good,” Clint says. “Got what you need? Shall I shoot him in the dick anyway?”

“No, leave him there,” Bucky says, clearly rattled. “Fuck.”

“I thought the Red Room had been stopped? There haven’t been any new Widows since you and Nat took them out, what, six years ago? Seven?"

“Obviously they’re not as stopped as I-” Bucky says and then stops, freezing like he’s just caught scent of prey. "Clint. Didn't you say that the guys who kidnapped you in Berlin were talking about lots?" 

Clint nods. "Yeah, they said they'd add me to lot twelve."

Bucky snaps another question at the guy who answers immediately, still giving Clint and his bow fearful looks. He rattles on in Russian for quite some time, spilling his guts to Bucky who keeps nodding tightly, occasionally prodding the guy with follow up questions. 

“What?” Clint demands. “What's he saying?”

“I asked if if it were only the Widows being auctioned off,” Bucky says. “He said no. It’s called the Items of Curious Interest auction and it’s for selling anything that might be of interest to people like Hydra, or AIM. Weber was helping them shift something out of Berlin but wanted to call it off when we arrived, so they killed him.”

"What were they shifting out of Berlin?" Clint asks, but even as he asks it the penny drops.

Oh, no.

He and Bucky stare at each other, horrified. “Oh shit,” Clint gapes. “They can’t just sell him!”

Bucky swallows hard. “They sold me plenty of times before,” he says grimly. “Has your phone got satellite connectivity on it?”

“Course, I left it unattended at the mansion and Stark got his hands on it.” 

“Good,” Bucky says. “Call Nat, tell her we've got a lead on Steve, a crate of Widows to rehabilitate and an auction to hijack.”

Chapter Text

Sharon and Coulson are waiting for them when the boat finally docks, like the world's worst welcoming committee. It’s daylight, which Clint didn’t expect, but then again, SHIELD policy is a bizarre mix of deep cover, flying just under the radar and also doing whatever they want in plain sight.

Even though he's not too thrilled to see his boss and her entourage, Clint has never been so happy to see the bleak concrete expanse of the New Jersey docks, sprawling out before them. It's pretty much a grey wasteland punctuated with cranes, containers and tankers but beneath the bright blue sky filled with wheeling gulls it looks positively radiant. God bless dry land, Clint thinks, even the shitty New Jersey bits of dry land. He's never going to take it for granted again and he's definitely never going to step foot on a boat again if he can help it. 

Beside him, Bucky looks less than enthralled. "Natasha said she'd be here," he says over the sound of groaning engines and shrieking gulls, sounding resigned. 

"She’s not?" Clint asks, eyes scanning the dock even though he knows in his gut that she's not going to be there. It really hits him then, that perhaps the pair of them are much further down her list than he assumed. Natasha has her own shit going on these days, and maybe it's dumb to think that any of their jostling or posturing will change her priorities. He can’t see her anywhere, no trace of her familiar figure between the concrete and containers and machinery. Bucky’s right - unless she’s deliberately trying to keep out of sight and for whatever reason, doesn’t want SHIELD to know she’s here, she’s distinctly AWOL. “No,” he confirms. “She’s not.”

Bucky’s back to wet-cat-sulking face, which Clint thinks he can read as disappointed. It’s different to wet-cat-annoyed or wet-cat-exasperated at any rate.  “They have SHIELD agents with them,” Bucky says slowly, arms folded across his chest. A frown is creeping across his face, too. “Those dock hands aren’t dock hands. They’re SHIELD agents.”

Clint frowns right back, quickly spotting the men Bucky is talking about. It’s only from becoming acquainted with Sergei and the boat crew that he understands what Bucky is talking about - the guys he’s talking about look not quite right in a way he can’t pinpoint. Definitely less like genuine dockhands and more like hastily assembled agents pretending to be dockhands. “What did you expect?” 

“Someone...I don’t know. Someone to take care of the girls.”

“They tried to kill us, I don’t think we can just send in a nanny.”

Bucky’s face does something complicated. “As long as they’re...nice to them.”

“SHIELD are the good guys, remember,” Clint says. “They’ll do the right thing.” He leans over the railings and watches as the boat finally settles  against the dock, far more gently than he expected for a boat the size of a skyscraper. He waves down at Sharon and her agents, trying to work out if Sharon’s face reads ‘I’m going to kill you with my bare hands,’ or ‘I’m going to hand you over to someone else to deal with because I just don’t even want to look at you.’

“Hey!” he shouts down at them. “It’s us, the guys that nearly died in a shootout in the middle of the Atlantic, remember us?”

“Discreet,” Bucky grumbles, shouldering his duffel bag and heading for the stairs. They head swiftly down to ground level, too swiftly for Clint who is really not ready for Sharon to tear them a new one about disobeying orders. Head ducked like he’s ten all over again, late for school and wanting to avoid eye contact with the secretary that’s just a bit too nosey and kind for her own good, he slinks after Barnes. Barnes is going for defiant, chin raised like he knows he did wrong and he’s ready to fight about it.

“So. You’re both on official warnings that will go onto your file,” Sharon says in lieu of a hello. Bucky opens his mouth to argue. Clint elbows him and he shuts it again, albeit resentfully.

“We didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Clint says, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Honestly, all the trouble was completely accidental. It probably actually caused us more trouble than you-”

“Stop,” Sharon says, sighing. “Hill already convinced us not to kick you off the case, I feel like if you keep talking then you’re going to undo all her hard work.”

“What, we’re not being suspended?” Bucky asks, waspish.

“No, because you did manage to get a lead,” Sharon says. “Luckily, in true Clint Barton fashion, the trouble you caused has been outweighed by the good you did.”

Clint grins and winks at her. “You know me, I’m like a lucky bad penny.”

Above them, a siren starts to wail: a crane is moving, slowly shifting into place to start unloading containers. Sharon glances up then back to Clint. “Now you need to get to HQ and stay put while we finalize a plan. We're not sure the best angle yet, but we may still need you.”

“What’s going to happen to the Widows?” Bucky asks suddenly, tensing in a way which makes Clint worry that he’s about do something dumb, like throwing Sharon into the dock, or fighting the SHIELD agents, or attempting to stop the cranes himself.

Sharon doesn’t answer. Coulson shifts slightly, slipping his hands into his pockets. “We’re going to put a tracker on-”

“No,” Bucky interrupts, pointing a gloved finger at Coulson. “No, get them out of there.”

“Barnes-”

“You are not going to use them as bait-”

“We cannot let Hydra know that we’re onto them,” Sharon says, uncompromising in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of Steve. “We cannot lose this lead.”

Clint has to look at the floor, focussing on scuffing his sneaker into the concrete because Bucky’s face is too difficult to look at right now. He’s clearly struggling, torn between the impulse to do right by the girls and his need to save Steve. Clint risks a glance up and his stomach twists, unsure about how he ever thought of Barnes as an expressionless robot, because it’s all right there, clear as day in the twist of his mouth and how his eyes are too bright, spilling over with emotion. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, jaw clenching tight. “Natasha won’t stand for this,” he says, and starts walking away. 

Clint follows without hesitation, because he knows he won’t win an argument against Coulson and Sharon, and because - mark the calendar, throw a parade, call the guys who investigate strange unexplained occurrences - he agrees with Barnes. 

“It was Natasha’s idea,” Sharon calls wearily and Bucky stops dead. So dead that Clint runs into him, tripping over him and almost pitching himself into the water. Luckily, Barnes grabs his arms and hauls him upright before he can do himself too much mischief. 

“What?” Bucky and Clint both say, voices overlapping in disbelief. 

“She knows what’s at stake here. If Hydra find out we know about the auction, who knows what they’ll do,” Sharon says. “Our priority is Commander Rogers.”

Clint looks to Bucky, just in time to hear him curse and to see him stalk away. “Oh man,” he groans. “Now you’ve really pissed him off.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Sharon asks, irritable. “Make sure he does not get back on that boat. He is not to engage with the Widows. We’re taking care of it.”

Clint looks back up at the boat, torn. He only looks away when Sharon says his name in a tone that brooks no argument. “Alright, we get it,” Clint huffs. “Greater good bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Sharon says reprovingly. “It’s-”

“Whatever,” Clint says, stepping away from them. “By the way, I’m not following him because you told me to.”

“Barton-”

Clint doesn’t wait around for the lecture. He turns and jogs after Bucky, catching up with him further down the docks. Bucky glances up and surprise flickers across his face as he sees Clint at his side.

Clint hitches his bag up. “Where’re we going?”

Bucky’s look turns cautious. “We?”

“Yeah. I’m still on board with you. You know, doing anything get Steve back. I mean that.”

Bucky slows down, looking at his shoes. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know what to do.”

Clint blows out a breath, thinking. He’s not sure how Barnes will react if he tries to tell him what to do, but he kind of feels weirdly like they’re in this together now, and not just because both of their names are written down on Sharon's mission reports. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. “Come on. Follow me.”

“So your idea was to sit on your ass and watch TV?” Bucky asks, scowling at the television. He’s perched on the edge of Clint’s battered old couch, not looking remotely comfortable. His shoulders are up around his ears, he’s gnawing on his lip, and he’s turning his phone over and over in his metal hand.

Clint just rolls his eyes, exasperated. He collects two mugs as the coffee maker finally decides to play ball, gurgling into life. “My plan was to get somewhere safe, somewhere that I know is not monitored by SHIELD, and to wait for Nat or Sharon to come to us. We’ve got two days before the auction, if they want our help to rescue Steve they’ll come and get us.”

“And if they don’t?”

“We show up anyway?”

Clint wanders over and passes Bucky a mug of coffee which he takes, still scowling at the TV. “How do you know this place isn’t monitored?”

“I thought we’d agreed that I’m not actually incompetent,” Clint says. “There’s one camera on the front door but it’s on a delayed feed. If I don’t want anyone to see me coming in I just come up here, get into the system and loop the feed.”

Bucky stares at him and then goes back to his coffee and glaring match with the TV, which Clint takes as approval. He grins, flopping down onto the couch next to Bucky. Bucky glances across and scowls when he sees Clint’s smile. He gestures at the TV like it’s to blame for their current predicament.

“What is this shit anyway?”

“British Bake off, and shut your mouth. Quality entertainment.”

Bucky screws up his face. “Why is making cake important to these people?”

“Different priorities in life,” Clint shrugs. “We worry about world security and interdimensional threats, they worry about if their soufflé is gonna rise.”

Bucky makes a disgusted noise, pushing up off the couch. He commences prowling around Clint’s apartment like a cat that doesn’t want to settle, phone in one hand and coffee in the other. He looks like he’s going through the motions of a regular sweep until he grinds to a halt, spotting the photos Clint has pinned to the noticeboard beside the phone. One is a photo of Clint with Steve, Wanda and Pietro, all suited up in their Avenger uniforms. The second is one of Clint and Nat; most of the frame is taken up by Clint’s cross-eyed face, but Nat is visible just behind him, red curls and the edge of a smile.

“She’d be angry if she knew you had this up,” Bucky says.

“She knows,” Clint tells him. “She’s been here enough times.”

The words hang there, the implication clear. Clint feels a mad urge to clarify, that she’s been to his apartment just to hang out as friends, but that would definitely count as a lie of omission.

Clint’s used to his life being punctuated by silent patches, but this one hits awkward very quickly.

“We tried again, me and Nat,” Bucky says out of nowhere, still staring at the photo. “After Hydra wiped her memories of me. After she forgot who I was. It didn’t work out.”

Clint bows his head, feeling a guilty prickle in his gut. He stares at his coffee, wondering if this is going to lead to a fight. “Bucky-”

“I know she slept with you,” Bucky says abruptly. “When me and her were dating again. Trying to date.”

Clint goes very still. The odds of this turning into a fight have just skyrocketed. He risks a glance around, mentally despairing at the amount of stuff he owns that could be weaponised by a pissed off Winter Soldier. Has anyone ever been beaten to death with a PlayStation controller before? He tenses as Bucky wanders back and sits back on the couch next to him, staring at the TV without even seeing it. Bucky exhales hard. Clint can see his throat move as he swallows. “Do you ever get the feeling that she doesn’t really want either of us?”

Clint feels a lump in his own throat. “Yeah,” he admits. “Lately. Since me and you...started talking.” He swallows thickly. “She probably deserves better than us.”

“I’m starting to think our mistake is assuming she needs anyone at all,” Bucky says. “She does just fine on her own.”

“Better than fine.”

They lapse into silence. Clint feels like his brain is full of bumper cars, thoughts erratically buzzing about and colliding. One in particular seems to crashing against the inside of his skull with more determination and urgency than the others. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why didn’t you kill me for sleeping with your girlfriend?”

“Because her sleeping with you made it clear that she wasn’t my girl anymore. Can you imagine what she would have said if I’d then started throwing my weight around like she was mine to make a claim on?” Bucky shakes his head. “She’s changed since we were together. I’m just...still getting used to it.” Bucky’s jaw works, then his attention shifts back to the TV. “What the fuck is a Genoise sponge?”

Clint knows the conversation is over. He’s not exactly sad about it because to be fair, that felt less like a conversation and more like a blindfolded stumble across a live minefield. He stares at the side of Bucky’s face for longer than is probably polite, then turns to look at the screen. “I dunno,” he says. “Something tasty but really hard to make, probably.”

“Probably,” Bucky echoes absently and they lapse back into silence, less awkward and more caught somewhere between their old animosity and a tentative new understanding that maybe they’re not exactly completely different after all. 

Clint is insanely grateful to go to sleep in his own bed that night, despite the fact the Winter Soldier is on his couch. It takes him ages to actually fall asleep, still preoccupied with his cartwheeling thoughts, trying to work out what the information Bucky dumped on him actually means. He’s not aware he’s falling asleep until he wakes up, blinking in confusion before his brain reboots and he remembers the events of the past few days. He rolls out of bed, going through his usual morning routine of check bow, check surroundings, engage hearing aids, locate clothes. This morning he adds check-for-Winter-Soldier to his list, and peers down from the loft as soon as he’s dragged his pants on.

He half expects Bucky to be gone. What he doesn’t expect is for Bucky to be standing in the middle of his apartment in nothing but a towel, holding a mug of coffee and staring at the TV.

“Morning?” Clint calls, the word coming out like a question because to be honest, he’s not really sure what’s going on here.

Bucky jumps a mile at the sound of his voice, his free hand going to grab at the knot of his towel. He turns to face Clint and Clint has to take a moment because hello abs. He blinks and curses himself, because come on Barton, stop ogling the Winter Soldier. 

“I used your shower,” Bucky says, oddly defensive. “I put everything back where I got it from, and you can file expenses for me staying here-”

“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay,” Clint says, kicking his limbs into gear and heading down from the loft. “Mi casa es tu casa. You know. What kind of Avenger would I be if I didn’t let my sidekick use the shower?”

Bucky doesn’t rise to the bait, just gives him a withering look. He turns back to the TV and Clint has about two seconds to revel in the fact that Bucky is watching the British Bake off, before he gets close enough to notice that Bucky’s hair is wet enough to be trailing drops of water down his back. Clint is mesmerised by a stray drop slipping from Bucky’s shoulder blades down to where the towel sits on his hips. 

“What, you never seen a fucking prosthetic before?”

Clint snaps back to reality with a strange guilty thrill, and his mouth proceeds with, “I wasn’t looking at your arm, I was looking at-” before his brain catches up and he abruptly shuts up. 

Bucky turns back to him and augh, that’s even worse because now the water is going from collarbones to towel via ab city and Clint really needs to go out and get laid so he can dispense with this madness. 

“Looking at...?”

“Uhhhhh,” Clint flounders. “Guess I’m just surprised that you washed your hair.”

Bucky is staring at him, clearly not buying it. Clint feels his throat bob as he swallows, watches Bucky’s eyes flick down and then back up again. Bucky’s eyes widen like he’s just realised what he’s doing, and he promptly turns away and marches towards the kitchen.

“You want coffee?” he asks, staring furiously at the sink. 

“Please,” Clint says. “I’m gonna - shower.”

“Okay,” Bucky says.

“Okay,” Clint says, and then stands there like an idiot until Bucky clears his throat. Then he reanimates and dives towards the bathroom, locking the door behind him and splaying his back against it like he’s integral to the structural fortitude of the building. 

Almost-kissing for a mission is one thing. Giving each other looks in the privacy of his apartment is something completely different. Are they going to…? Surely not. Surely not, considering their history and Nat and the fact that Clint has vowed to stop sleeping with his teammates. 

...hold up. That train of thought can only mean that somehow, he’s gone from seeing Bucky as a thorn in his side, to seeing him as a teammate . That’s almost as disconcerting as considering sleeping with him - maybe more because he respects his relationships with his teammates more than he respects the relationships with ninety percent of the people he sleeps with.

Instead of thinking about that any more, he contemplates drowning himself in the shower and then distracts himself by trying to work out what Barnes has touched or moved. He can’t, which he’s both annoyed and grudgingly impressed by.

He finishes up in the shower and redresses, deciding that going back out there wearing anything less than all his clothes would be madness. He even takes a minute to towel-dry his hair because he doesn’t really want to test out if errant water-drops on his neck have the same effect on Bucky as the ones earlier did on him.

He reaches for the door handle and grinds to a halt. What if Bucky is still wearing nothing but a towel? What if the water droplets are still there? Clint doesn’t think he can be held accountable for his actions if they are. 

Fuck it. He’s had a somewhat up and down relationship with personal accountability over the years. If anything happens, then it happens and they deal with the mess afterwards, like normal dysfunctional human beings do. Whether that’s dealing with the emotional ‘oh god I slept with another Avenger' mess or the more literal ‘let’s try and get the bloodstains out of the couch because Barnes just battered me for wildly misunderstanding this entire situation’ mess, Clint decides he can handle it.

Luckily, Bucky is dressed. He is still watching Bake Off, which Clint does not find oddly endearing. 

“I want macarons,” Bucky says without looking up. “Where’s the nearest place that sells macarons?”

“Sweet tooth, huh?” Clint says. “We can stop by a bakery, if you like.”

“Are we allowed to go out? Shouldn’t we be keeping a low profile?”

“Probably,” Clint says, pulling a face. “But one of is gonna have to leave, we need food. The only things I have for breakfast are stale Cheerios and a quart of milk that's probably sentient by now.”  

“You go,” Bucky says. “You know the area better. You’ll be quicker.”

Clint nods, then something occurs to him. “Hey, where do you actually live?”

“Location redacted,” Bucky says, and Clint rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts a little. Bucky can probably sense it even if he can’t see it, because he then sighs. “Bushwick. When I first came back I was in Red Hook, in an apartment just over from Steve.”

“Wow, codependent much?” Clint says, even as it knocks him off kilter thinking that he and Bucky have been living literally between two and ten minutes apart and he never knew. He shrugs it off, going to peer out of the window to assess the weather situation.  

“Well, that’s why I moved. Shrinks were giving me a hard time. Steve was giving me a hard time.”

“You had a shrink?”

“I had three,” Bucky says. “There was a lot of bad to undo after the whole Winter Soldier thing.”

Clint doesn't know what to say to that, so instead he grabs his jacket, asks Bucky what he wants for breakfast and then hightails it out of the apartment, not entirely sure why it feels like he’s running. 

They’re just about finished with breakfast - bagels, juice, more coffee and a slightly battered box of macarons from the bakery on Kosciuszko. Bucky had looked utterly perplexed when Clint had handed them over, but Clint had just carried on bitching about the roadworks on Broadway, leaving him no space to ask why Clint had gone out of his way to buy him macarons. Clint doesn’t know why he went out of his way to buy the goddamn macarons, but he does know he’s oddly pleased when Bucky eats the lot.

They’re just clearing up crumbs and stray flecks of sugar when Clint’s phone rings - not even his cell, but the one attached to the wall. “Ugh,” he groans, full of bagel and not wanting to move. “I hate you,” he tells the phone, then hauls his ass over to pick it up. “Lo?”

“I assume James is with you?” Nat says, and Clint nearly drops the phone. “It’s Nat,” he mouths to Bucky, who immediately lunges over and gets all up in Clint’s personal space, trying to listen in. “This line isn’t secure,” Clint says, as he plants a hand on Bucky’s forehead and tries to shove him back. His breath smells like coffee and sugar and it’s way too intense. 

“It is,” Natasha says. “Just because you didn’t bother to secure it.”

“Oh,” Clint says, and then gasps as Bucky twists his arm up behind his back.

“Clint?”

“Sorry. Watching Bake Off. Someone dropped their macarons,” Clint lies, even as he tries to stamp on Bucky’s feet. Bucky winds his free arm around Clint’s waist and yanks him flush up against him. They end up in some strange grapple that reminds Clint bizarrely of that time Nat tried to teach him to tango. Bucky’s cheek is an inch away, his ear turned so he can hear the conversation. The phone cord has ended up wrapped around them, straining precariously at the wall. 

“You and your British reality TV,” Nat says, sounding more fond than exasperated. “So, we have a plan to infiltrate the auction. It involves you and James behaving like grown ups and getting along for a little bit longer.”

Clint looks at Bucky, who is already looking at him, and for some reason Clint feels his cheeks going red.

“If I have to,” he says, but it sounds feeble even to his own ears. “What do we need?”

“We need you to learn how to look comfortable in a tux,” she says. “I’ll meet you at the mansion tomorrow at three. Take the underground road in, we don’t want anyone to know you’re there.”

“A tux?” Clint repeats in dismay. “Are you sending me to the auction?”

“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow,” Natasha says, and hangs up. Clint resists the urge to bang his head against the nearest hard surface, because the nearest hard surface is probably Bucky’s vibranium shoulder.

“Does she think I’ll somehow leak the plan if she tells me now?” he bitches, beginning the arduous task of unwinding the phone cord. “Careful, mind your arm.”

Bucky stands still while Clint untangles them, and then slouches off to sit on the couch, reaching for the remote again. 

“I’m used to hurry up and wait,” he says with a shrug . “At least this time I have TV.”

And Clint doesn’t really know how to argue with that, even if he wanted to argue for the sake of it, so he simply mooches over and flops on the couch next to Bucky.

“Season seven is the best,” he says, and Bucky queues it up without comment.

They manage to coexist in relative peace until it’s time to leave the next afternoon, and their detente is disrupted by a spectacular argument over whether Clint’s car or Bucky’s bike is the more acceptable form of transportation. Clint wins the argument through sheer belligerence and Bucky snaps, “You’re worse than Steve when you think you’re fucking right,” and stomps off to grab his duffel bag. Clint’s had worse comparisons made about him in the past so he just rolls his eyes, grabs his bow and pockets his keys, opening the door for Bucky before he does something dickish like kick through it out of spite.

He’s calmed down by the time they get to the car, parked outside and luckily still in the same place and state that Clint left it. He stows his bag in the trunk and climbs into the passenger seat without complaint, and is halfway through looking through the door pockets and glove compartment by the time Clint gets in. 

“Are you seriously sweeping my car for bugs?” Clint says. “Will you just relax for once in your life?”

Bucky ignores him, pulling out an old Johnny Cash cassette and eyeing it suspiciously. "Jesus, these things are older than me."

Clint snorts with laughter. “Good joke."

Bucky sighs. "I told you…”

“I know, I know,” Clint interjects. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling like maybe he got that wrong. He should have just laughed, made a joke back. He wouldn’t point out to any of his other friends when they’d made a joke - ugh he’s so dumb. Bucky knows he made a joke, he doesn’t need Clint doing the equivalent of patting him on the head and going ‘well done, you made a funny!’ Bucky’s a hundred and two, he’s not an idiot.

“Sorry,” he eventually says, rubbing his hands on his thighs and feeling awkward for being an idiot and for apologising. “I just...I’m still figuring you out, wouldn’t want to get it wrong.”

“You always get me wrong,” Bucky says vaguely, now inspecting an empty Master of Puppets cassette case. 

Clint’s not sure why he wants to fix this, but his mouth is ahead of his brain. "Go on then, start that over. Tell me another joke."

"What's wearing a purple shirt and is about to get punched all over?"

"Well now you're just playing into your own stereotype. I thought you were trying to prove you were more than a sullen, broody asshole?"

"What can I say, you bring out the worst in me,” Bucky says, and shoves the case back in the compartment. He looks up at Clint, and Clint’s stomach jolts in surprise as he sees a half smile hitched into the corner of Bucky’s mouth. It’s not even his usual smirk or scornful smile, it’s something that looks like it actually enjoyed Clint’s awkward attempts at joking around. “Are we doing this or what?”

“Oh, right,” Clint says, like he’s just remembered he’s driving and in charge of things like starting the car. “Autobots, roll out.”

They drive in silence but it’s not like homicidal, someone-is-about-to-get-stabbed silence so Clint takes it as a win. He’s busy anyway, trying not to overthink what the hell is happening today. Everything that’s happened with Bucky - the almost kiss in the club, the fight in the warehouse, the shower incident - is rattling around in his brain and it’s impossible to try and comprehend considering his brain is also full of mission. It doesn’t really matter what’s going on with Bucky, because they still have to rescue Steve.

Apart from somehow, what’s going on with Bucky does matter. 

They don’t get to pull up at the front of the mansion; they have to do the awkward drive around the back of goddamn Manhattan and in through a hidden-garage entrance in some street in New Jersey. For all that it takes a goddamn lifetime, it’s actually pretty cool; the suburban concrete and metal of the garages gives way to a sleek, reinforced tunnel that lights up as they drive along it. It’s a thousand times cooler to do at high speeds on a motorbike, but Clint’s only ever done it like that with Nat, and he’s not sure his brain can handle thinking about being on the back of a bike behind Bucky. They’d be all close and pressed together and his traitorous thoughts seem to have forgotten that he and Bucky don’t even like each other so enjoying being pressed up to him would be inappropriate.  

Contrary to his usual deal of wanting a welcome committee and for people to make excited-happy, maybe even amazed-awed noises when he shows up at Avengers HQ, this time he’s hoping that they can sneak into the mansion unannounced. He assumes that Bucky would like to keep everything on the down-low, but that’s because Bucky’s usual demeanour is a slinking cat that doesn’t trust anyone to come too close. However, his hopes are shattered when he pulls up to see Jess in front of the elevator, car keys in hand. She’s in civilian gear but has her sunglasses on, so has probably just un-suited and still isn’t ready to have her eyes on show. 

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters.

“Christ, can’t go five minutes without tripping over one of your exes,” Bucky says, glaring through the windshield. “What the hell does she want?”

“No idea,” Clint says glumly. “I’m hoping it’s a coincidence.”

“If Nat has invited anyone else onto this op,” Bucky says dangerously, and leaves the threat unsaid - either because he wouldn’t actually do anything to Nat or because he’s so protective over Steve and this mission that he can’t think of a suitable punishment. 

“Hey. Don’t worry. Every single Avenger in the city will do anything to get Steve home safe,” Clint says, and watches the tension ease marginally from Bucky’s frame. His jaw unclenches slightly at any rate, which Clint takes as a win. 

“They better,” he says fiercely, then climbs out of the car, slamming the door hard enough to make the windows rattle. Clint follows, raising his hand in a half-hearted wave. “Hey, Jess.”

“What are you two doing here?” she asks with a frown.  “I thought you were stranded in Berlin?”

“Clearly not,” Bucky says before Clint has a chance to say anything.

Jess raises an eyebrow, looks between the two of them then addresses Clint, clearly choosing to ignore Bucky. “I heard you’d had a fight and were benched. Like, Sharon was so angry she’d refused to charter you a flight home.”

“Again, clearly not,” Bucky says. “What is this, gossip hour?”

“It’s kind of a tradition around here,” Jess says with a shrug. “We sometimes take bets on how Clint will end up screwing up a mission.”

“Hey,” Clint says, insulted, but before he can come up with a retort that’s neither too childish nor mean, Bucky is there, stepping right up so he’s uncomfortably in Jess’s space. His metal fist is clenched.

“You think I’d be working with him on an op to find Steve if there was any chance he was going to screw it up?” he says, scathing. “Go back to babysitting Spiderman or whatever the fuck you’re supposed to be doing.” And with that, he pushes past her out of the garage and into the elevator, jabbing viciously at the buttons. Clint barely has time to wince at Jess’s shocked expression before he has to dart into the elevator, almost getting himself caught in the doors.

The silence is immediately tense. Not quite uncomfortable, but close. Clint opens his mouth, shuts it again. Bucky folds his arms, glaring at the wall. Clint drums his fingers against his bow, blowing out a breath. He wants to point out that Bucky just stood up for him and vouched for him in a weirdly backhand way, and to his ex-girlfriend no less. If he wasn’t so confused and impressed, he’d be annoyed. 

Should he say thank you? It’d be weird to say thank you. But maybe he should anyway. Though if he does, will Bucky snap at him? Christ, he’s back to blundering around a minefield, no idea if a slight misstep will cause a Barnes explosion of temper.

Across the other side of the elevator, Bucky sighs, scrubs his hand over his face and then the back of his head. 

“You ever think about getting your hair cut?” Clint says before he can engage his brain. Bucky just stares at him for a moment, then opens his mouth, probably ready to tell Clint to fuck off, or to go fuck himself, but before he can the elevator doors ding open and they both jump a mile because Tony is standing right there, tapping his foot impatiently. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a while, which isn’t surprising considering the amount of ops he’s working on. Though Clint thinks that Tony probably wouldn’t get enough sleep even if his schedule was completely mission-free.

“Oh good, you’ve decided to turn up, let’s go,” he says. He walks away without explaining, obviously meaning for them to follow.

“No,” Bucky says as they tread down the carpeted hallways.

Clint looks at Bucky, confused. Tony’s already like twenty steps ahead of them, so he definitely wasn’t quick enough off the mark with his refusal. The tone was good but the timing definitely needs work. “Eh?”

“No, I don’t ever think about having my hair cut,” Bucky says. “Not letting some stranger near my neck with scissors.”

Clint snorts out a laugh. “You should. You’d look good with short hair.”

Bucky raises a brow. “You saying I don’t look good now?”

Clint pulls a face. “Uhhhh…”

“Go on Hawkeye, enlighten me, what’s wrong with my hair?”

“Well...” Clint says, clearing his throat because of how wobbly and high it comes out. Oh come on, he’s an Avenger, he knows how to lie without it coming out all weird and squeaky. “It’s…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just saying...”

“You’re not saying, you’re mumbling.”

“Because you get mad every time I say anything!”

“Because you’re usually being a dick.”

Clint makes a spluttering noise, voice going high and indignant again. “So are you!”

Bucky grins fleetingly, the roguish expression he sometimes directs at Nat lighting up his face. “Toldja, you bring out the worst in me,” he says.

“Hold up, what is this? Are you two actually getting on?” 

Clint looks away from Bucky towards Tony, who is waiting for them by the security doors that lead down to his lab and the armoury. He’s looking at them with utter disbelief, like he’s utterly affronted by even the idea of them not trying to maim or wound each other.

“In a fashion,” Bucky says. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that Steve is still missing and you two seem to be having a great time-”

“Hey,” Clint interrupts, voice pitched at a warning. “Tony, it’s us,” he says, gesturing between him and Bucky. “You think either of us will let anything happen to Steve?”

Tony huffs, apparently conceding the point. “Come on, Romanov and Carter are waiting.”

“Wonderful,” Bucky says flatly. “Are we going to get yelled at again?”

“Jury’s out,” Tony shrugs, tapping in codes for the security doors. “They’re pretty keen to get the ball rolling on this though, so chop chop.”

“If they wanted us to chop chop they should have let us steal a jet instead of sticking us on a cargo ship for a week and then leaving us on standby,” Bucky grouches and Clint hums in agreement.

“Yeah about that, where have you been?” Tony asks as the doors clunk and hiss open, revealing the sleek chrome stairway that’s at odds with the deep wood and plush carpets of the rest of the mansion. “I was told you’d be coming back here to lie low.”

“Location redacted,” Clint says and out of the corner of his eye catches the way Bucky’s mouth twitches. 

Tony throws him a look over his shoulder. “Ugh, you’re starting to sound like each other. I’d hate it if I didn’t think Steve will be thrilled.”

Bucky’s face goes blank again and Clint feels his stomach go tight. Steve will be thrilled, he repeats in his head. When they find him, he will be thrilled. 

If they find him.

They don’t have time for the doubt to set in because they’re accosted by Nat and Sharon the moment they get into the armoury. The round table in the centre is laid out with a whole array of weaponry and tech and Clint literally feels Bucky perk up at the sight of it. So predictable, Clint thinks. Give the man some guns or stabby implements and he acts like it’s his birthday.

“Glad you boys could join us,” Natasha says with the ghost of a tired smile. Clint smiles briefly back but his attention is taken up by the holoscreen that Sharon is throwing up above the table, by Bucky’s lingering presence at his elbow.

“So, Items of Curious Interest,” Sharon says, gesturing to the spread of pictures that are on the holoscreen. The largest picture is of a sprawling stately home, the sort that makes Avengers Mansion look small. Clint bets he could fit like five hundred of his apartment in there. “It’s a bold move, I’ll give them that.”

“It’s genius,” Tony says, picking up a small silver square from the table and turning it over and over in his fingers. “Evil genius, granted, but still. What a way to make cash and connections. If I was a super-villain, I’d definitely be attending the illegal tech auction.”

“Steve is not tech,” Bucky says, bristling. Clint bumps him with his shoulder, a silent warning to stay calm, for God’s sake, before they get thrown off the case. 

“Technically, he is,” Tony says, unruffled. “A very patriotic example of top-level biotech.”

“That’s what they’re interested in? The serum?” Clint asks.

Sharon gives him a funny look. “Of course. You think they’re interested in him as a soldier? Like he’d do their bidding just because they bought him and they ask nicely?”

“Well, no-”

“If there’s any mind-wiping tech out there they won’t need to ask nicely,” Bucky says and there’s an uncomfortable silence.

“Okay, we’re actually all on the same team here, believe it or not,” Tony breaks the impasse with his usual tact. “And we’ve got thirty-six hours to get four teams, including Robin Hood and Terminator here, ready for a high risk, covert op.”

Sharon gives Clint a dirty look, like he’s the one acting prickly, like a goddamn metal-armed porcupine. “So the plan is to have Tony and I remotely supervising the op and coordinating comms. Natasha and Coulson will be entering the auction undercover as part of the staff. We've also pulled Parker and the twins to assist but they won't be going in until we actually find Steve and start extraction. You two will be the ones to start extraction, so call on backup as you need it."

"So we're going undercover," Bucky says slowly.

"Yes. We're going to send Bucky in in the place of Adrin Ivanov, a Russian weapons trader. Nat bought him in a few days ago, so there’s no chance of him turning up under the same name. Clint, you’ll be playing his bodyguard.”

“Whoa, whoa, I thought Clint would be playing the buyer,” Bucky says, alarmed. “I’m not - I’m not an actor-”

Sharon shakes her head. “You look more like Ivanov, you speak Russian better than Clint, Clint is potentially too recognizable.”

“No-one ever recognizes him,” Bucky says and Clint would be offended if it wasn’t true. 

“Not taking the risk,” Natasha says. “Which is why Clint will be disguised and lurking behind you-”

“I’m six three, I can’t lurk.”

Sharon sighs, exasperated. “Then you will be standing behind Barnes in a very tall manner, happy?”

“That’s relative,” Clint says. 

“Just stop,” Sharon bites out, pinching the bridge of her nose in another gesture that's very Steve-ish. “Barnes, you’re the buyer. Deal with it. You’re bidding on a case of weapons grade material, probably adamantium by the sounds of things. That’s the only thing you’re to bid on, but do act interested in any other weapons that come up.”

“How am I gonna bid on shit?”

“You’re welcome,” Tony says, picking up what looks like a watch. “The bank of Stark is coming to the rescue again, someone write it down somewhere. Give me your arm. Jacket and shirt off.”

Clint can hear Bucky’s teeth grinding together as he complies, wrestling angrily out of his jacket and shirt and dumping them unceremoniously on the floor. Clint averts his eyes away from Bucky’s abs as Bucky sticks out his left arm without looking, allowing Tony to wrap the watch around his wrist. “Can’t I bid on the Widows? I’m assuming they’re going to be there seeing as we’ve not actually rescued them.”

“The Widows are my problem,” Natasha says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We had a chance to help,” Bucky snaps.

“I am helping,” Natasha says sharply, picking up copies of the event schedule and slipping them into a manilla wallet that Clint knows is full of shit he's going to have to read. “Don’t get involved. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky snorts. “I helped train enough Widows-”

“You are not a Widow.” Nat says without looking at him. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Starting to doubt it,” Bucky mutters angrily, scowling when Tony pulls at his arm a little too vigorously. “Hey, watch it, pal-”

He breaks off as Tony presses something on the watch and his whole arm ripples, some sort of veil sliding up and over his arm. Within seconds it looks just like his other arm: pale skin over flesh and bone.

“Huh,” Bucky says, turning his hand over and examining it closely. “Neat.”

“Whoa,” Clint says, stepping forwards to look. “That looks-” he reaches out without thinking, pressing his fingers tips to Bucky’s wrist. “It feels warm too.”

“It feel real?” Bucky asks, frowning. “I can’t tell.”

Clint wraps his fingers around Bucky’s wrist. “Not real, it’s too solid. Texture and temperature are good but it’s too hard." His mouth twitches. "That's what she said.”

“Yeah, sounds about right,” Tony says vaguely, reaching back for Bucky’s arm and unstrapping the watch. The veil vanishes, leaving Clint’s fingers pressed to the dull vibranium of Bucky’s real arm. He's never been this up close and personal with it before - well, not in a moment that doesn't involve fighting. It's pretty impressive, really.

“When you’re quite finished,” Nat says.

Clint steps away, feeling a flush rising on his neck. He clears his throat, studiously ignoring Bucky getting redressed behind him. “What?”

“Eyes front and centre, Barton. We’ve got a mission to plan,” Nat says, and if her eyes and voice are too knowing Clint decides to ignore it and pretend nothing strange is happening at all.

Five hours later and Clint finally staggers into his room in the mansion, slamming the door shut behind him. He tosses the file that Nat had made him promise to reread on top of the drawers, props up his bow and dumps his bag before collapsing face-first into the neatly made bed. His brain is overloaded with intel: maps and faces and details all swimming around. At least he’s not Bucky - Bucky has way more to remember and is going to have to be convincing as some shady member of the Russian underground. Clint just gets to stand behind him and scowl.

He wants nothing more than to sleep but the fact that this could be their chance to rescue Steve has him getting up and collecting the file. He can probably memorize the layout of the building, which shouldn’t take too long. Besides, Bucky is still in mission briefing and it feels oddly like cheating to go to sleep while Bucky is still at the mercy of Nat and Sharon. Funny, how only a few short days ago he would have been a) gleeful at Bucky's misfortune and b) annoyed that Bucky was getting more time with Nat than he was. Now, he's not feeling either.

He’s not going to think about why, or what else he might be feeling, because down that path lies madness.

It takes him a good couple of hours but eventually he can confidentially redraw the building plan from memory. He’s deliberating between sleeping or having a look at the schedule for the auction when he’s interrupted by a dull thudding on his door.

He knows deep in his bones that it’s not going to be Nat. 

Yawning, he climbs up off the bed, tucking away the loose pages from the file. He tosses it back onto the dresser, trying not to think about who could be standing on the other side of the door-

It’s Bucky.

Of course it's Bucky, but it takes a second for Clint’s brain to register his presence, because somewhere between him leaving the meeting and now, someone has cut Bucky’s hair. The chin-length, greasy locks are gone, brutally cropped in true Russian gangster style. It makes Bucky look completely different - somehow bolder and more confident now that he doesn’t have the hair to hide behind.

Clint’s jaw drops. “Your hair.”

“Don’t say a fucking word,” Bucky bites out, then he exhales hard enough for his shoulders to slump. “Nat did it.”

Clint can’t get his brain to reboot. Goddamn, Bucky’s jawline. How has Clint never noticed it before? He's honestly a little jealous; Bucky's gone from a solid C- in the looks department to a solid A with no more effort than a fucking haircut. “You said-” 

“She’s not a stranger. And if it gets me in the goddamn door so we can rescue Steve…” He rubs his face before lifting his head and jerking his chin towards Clint’s room. His eyes are dark and dangerous as he takes a step closer, close enough to put him right in Clint's personal space. “We doing this or what?”

All the breath leaves Clint in a rush, stomach swooping. Now he wasn't expecting that - he was expecting more awkward moments and misunderstanding, and if they were going to end up anywhere it would be because Clint made the move. He feels his pulse picking up, anticipation curling hot and heady. “I won’t respect you in the morning.”

“You don’t respect me now,” Bucky says, and he reaches out to fist his metal hand in Clint’s shirt, tugging him down to kiss him. Clint manages a shocked, breathless noise but then he’s kissing back, hands going to grip Bucky’s waist as he pulls him into the room, Bucky kicking the door shut behind them.

Chapter Text

Clint’s brain is flatlining, he’s sure of it. It’s early morning, sunlight just starting to creep into the room. Bucky is next to him, curled up on his side and snoring softly, by all accounts dead to the world. Clint is staring at the ceiling like the meaning of life is written up there. 

What the hell just happened? Well, he knows what just happened, but the how and why is a little hazier.

He doesn’t want to move because if he does, it makes it very obvious just how much he’s aching. He’s pulled muscles he didn’t even know he had. He’s got bruises in places that shouldn’t have bruises on.

Man, having sex with Bucky Barnes has left him feeling a lot like he’s been beaten up by a Doombot. 

He turns his head to the side and winces, mostly because of the twinge in his neck but also because of the state of the room. There’s a hole in the wall over by the door. The lamp is in pieces, strewn across the carpet. Oh god, that’s his underwear hanging from the ceiling fan. He needs to get up and clean this up as soon as possible because there is no way he’s letting anyone else see this crime scene, because if word gets back to any of the Avengers-

Oh fuck. What is he going to tell Natasha? Is there any way he can make it so she doesn’t find out? Short of supergluing Bucky’s old Winter Soldier mask over his face and cutting his own tongue out, he doesn’t think so. Hell, she probably already knows.

He swings his legs gingerly out of the bed, trying not to think about the state of the sheets. Fuck cleaning, he’s going to have to burn this place to the ground. 

One of his hearing aids is on the nightstand, which is a relief. The other is on the floor, amongst the scattered feathers that have come from a shredded pillow. He puts them in and looks around, wondering if it’d be easier to sneak out of the door or the window-  

“Morning,” a sleep-rough voice says, and he freezes.

“Uhhhh…”

“Freaking out?” Bucky mumbles.

“No?” Clint replies, and wants to punch himself for how it comes out all high-pitched and uncertain.

Bucky snorts and rolls over onto his back, rubbing his face. He’s got stubble and his chest is bare and Clint wants to lick it. Again. “Sure you are,” he says. “Oh man, I feel like I ran a marathon.”

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” Clint admits and Bucky snort-laughs again. 

“We gonna talk about it?”

“Oh god no,” Clint says. “Why, do you want to talk about it? I thought you were the strong, silent type. Or the sulky, silent type, whatever.”

Bucky blows out a breath. “I never hated you, you know.”

Clint’s stomach twists uncomfortably and he stands up, trying to ignore the ache in his thighs as he casually snags his underwear from the fan. “Sure felt like it.”

“It felt like you hated me.”

Clint pauses. “I probably did, a little bit.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. The silence stretches out, uncomfortable. Clint is suddenly very aware that he’s butt naked and awkwardly pulls his underwear back on. He opens the door of the en-suite, peering in and checking that there’s towels-

“On the boat.”

Clint steps back out of the bathroom. “Huh?”

Bucky pushes himself up, sitting back against the headboard. He looks at his knees, seemingly lost in thought. “On the boat,” he says slowly. “You said the widows deserved a second chance.” He looks up, eyes locking on Clint’s. “Why didn't I?”

He’s talking about back then, Clint knows. That awful time when Steve had been murdered and they hadn’t known it wouldn’t stick; when the Winter Soldier had come in from the cold, brain realigned and memories returned; back when the Avengers were constantly falling out or leaving and nothing was making sense anymore. There had been so many problems back then even without Bucky’s awkward presence on the team and in their lives.

“Well…” Clint gestures uselessly at nothing before turning to sit on the edge of the bed. “Well, you’d tried to kill Steve…”

“Other people could see past that,” Bucky says, sounding frustrated. “I was brainwashed for god's sake - I would never hurt Steve if I knew what I was doing-”

“I know, I know,” Clint interrupts, wishing that they could just go back to fucking instead of talking. “I just...Steve was like a big brother to me and he was gone. I wasn’t ready to - to think about him being gone, or ready to forgive you. I needed time to process and then boom, Stark is handing you the shield-”

“Oh,” Bucky says flatly, sounding oddly disappointed. “That’s what it was all about? You were jealous.”

Clint scoffs. “I wasn’t jealous. You forget he offered me the shield first? If I wanted to be Cap that bad I could have just said yes then.”

“Then why-”

“I said no because I didn’t think anyone should be trying to imitate, or - or live up to Steve. We should have all said no as a mark of respect and you didn’t, you just jumped in his grave.”

There’s a beat. “I never saw it like that,” Bucky says. “I...I wanted to...I don’t know. Preserve his legacy. Didn’t want to let all his work go to waste.”

Clint mulls it over, rubbing at his knee. “I guess...you considered what Cap meant. I was just thinking about Steve.”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “So you hated me for jumping in Steve’s grave.”

“A little,” Clint admits, wondering why the hell he's still talking. “I was also pissed off because it took years for me and Steve to get close and then you turn up and he takes you in like a brother without even hesitating. I know, it’s different - he gave me a hard time for being a crook and for things I chose to do, and you were brainwashed, and you’re his oldest friend...but it sucked. You got what I’d wanted with no effort whatsoever.”

He looks away toward the door, wishing Bucky would stop fucking looking at him. He’s never talked about his friendship with Steve like this, not even with Natasha. He feels split open and way too vulnerable, and it’s in front of Bucky goddamn Barnes.

“Steve thinks the world of you,” Bucky says quietly. “He always has. I hated it. When I got back, it was like he’d replaced me.”

The shock of hearing it makes Clint laugh. “Oh god, we are such a pair,” he groans. “What is it with us and this whole Steve thing?”

“I tried to get him to adopt me when I was seventeen,” Bucky says, with a rueful laugh. “I was trying to tag along on missions, kept turning up where I shouldn’t. Steve kept saying he couldn’t make calls for me when I was a minor. This guy called Robert Shipman, the goddamn base chaplain, was technically my guardian, so I asked Steve to adopt me.”

Clint’s jaw drops. “You did not.”

“He said no, because he’s an asshole,” Bucky says. “Then I turned eighteen and took to following him around and no-one could stop me. He didn’t try all that hard, to be fair.”

Silence falls again but this time it’s not as awkward. Clint’s wondering what would have happened if he and Bucky had had this conversation years ago. Maybe the wondering is pointless - it happened now and there’s no way of changing it or thinking what if.

He gets up again, takes a step towards the bathroom. “We’ve got to go to briefing.”

“Fuck,” Bucky curses, then climbs out of bed and shoulders past Clint into the ensuite, kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Hey!” Clint protests indignantly. “There’s a queue, asshole!” He debates kicking the door but in a hand to hand fight Bucky would definitely win, and Clint thinks they’ve spent quite enough time around each other without clothes on. He sighs and instead goes to tidy up the room as best he can, half-heartedly hoping that no-one asks him about the hole in the plaster.

They meet the others down in the armoury. Tony is there, uncharacteristically quiet as he sorts through their equipment and tech. Clint gets it; the closer they get to go-time the more nervous he feels, and the only person who pretends not to love Steve harder than Clint does is Tony. 

He stands over to one side of the room, keeping out of the way and watching Bucky examine the weapons on offer on Tony’s worktable. Clint doesn’t bother to join them - he’s got his bow and his tried and trusted tac gear and that’s all he needs.

“You do realise that you can’t go in your tac gear?” Nat’s voice cracks through the room like a whip and Clint jumps a mile. She looks at him curiously as she comes closer, evidently wondering why Clint isn’t just rolling his eyes at her like he normally does.

“I can,” he says, annoyed at himself and fighting the urge to squirm. He washed himself like five times in the shower and he’s pretty sure Nat’s officially nonexistent superpowers don’t extend to super-smell. “And I will.”

“You will not,” she says. “You’re wearing a suit, and you’re taking a handgun, not your bow.”

Clint opens his mouth, so outraged that he doesn’t even produce sound.

“Please,” Nat says abruptly. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is. This might be our one choice to get Steve back and…” she lowers her voice. “Sharon and Tony are already on the edge. Much more and the whole op is going to go sideways before we even start.”

Clint huffs, frustrated. “I don’t want to go into a mission this important without my bow.” He runs his hands over his head. “What if something goes down and I need it?”

“Your bow will be smuggled into the building,” Natasha says. “It’ll be there in case of emergency.”

“Who’s going to do that? You?”

“No. Parker.”

Clint draws back, offended. “Hell no. He’s not touching my baby.”

“Trust him or go without,” Natasha says curtly. “Coulson, Parker and I are the only other people entering the building, and Coulson and I have our own objectives to worry about.”

Clint glances back at Bucky. “The Widows?”

“You don’t need to know. All you need to know is that we’ll be there, try not to look too shocked if you see us.”

“It’s still on me and Bucky to extract Steve, right?” Clint asks.

“Is that what Sharon said?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes,” Natasha says. “Look, there’s four teams involved in this op but you don’t need to know what teams B through D are doing, you just need to focus on your own objective.”

“Steve would hate that,” Clint opines. “He’d tell you that we need to be open and transparent.”

“Well when he gets back he can critique my planning style himself. Until then, I don’t want to hear it. I pulled Parker from his Venom op purely so he could smuggle your equipment into this place, so enough complaining and more getting ready.”

“Understood,” Clint says. “I’ll go pick a gun and you pick me a suit?”

“I already have your suit,” Natasha says with a small smile. “Go get a gun. One befitting a moody Russian bodyguard please. And not a Kalashnikov, it needs to fit under your jacket.”

“You know me so well,” Clint jokes but it kind of comes out a bit flat and way too sincere.

“Sometimes,” Natasha says, and turns away.

Clint feels a flicker of unease, of panic. Christ, spending a night with Bucky Barnes was the worst idea ever and not just because he still hurts all over. What if it’s somehow going to ruin whatever he and Nat are, or could be?

Or maybe, he thinks, maybe that’s already a closed chapter. Maybe whatever’s going on with him and Bucky isn’t part of their story with Nat, but another book altogether.

He shakes it off and refocuses, heading over to the workbench. “Ooh,” he says, eyeing up the selection. “Nice.”

He’s barely reached out towards what looks like a Stechkin silent revolver when Bucky smacks his hand away. “Get off.”

“You get off,” Clint rubs the back of his hand. “I need a gun, Nat said.”

Bucky scowls. “What?”

“He’s going to be your bodyguard, well, he’s going to be Adrin Ivanov’s bodyguard, and he’d be a pretty lousy bodyguard if he didn’t have at least one gun,” Tony says, handing Bucky a money clip which Clint is a thousand percent sure isn’t just a money clip. “He should be the one carrying, besides, you have a locked and loaded Stark-patented vibranium arm. That should be enough and frankly I think you’re being pretty ungrateful-”

“Hey,” Clint interjects with a frown.

“I think you’re being an ass because you’re worried about Steve,” Bucky says.

Tony scoffs. “I am not being an ass.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Clint, are you ready?”

“No, I need a weapon that says ‘I am a Russian bodyguard’,” Clint says. He’s barely finished the sentence before Bucky's handing him a pistol. A makarov, by the looks of things, which isn’t the coolest gun on the table but definitely the one most likely to be used by a shady bodyguard with ties to the Russian arm of Hydra. 

"Can't a bodyguard have a sniper rifle?" he asks half-heartedly, already knowing the answer. 

"No," Bucky and Tony both say as one and then scowl at each other. 

"Ugh," Tony rolls his eyes so hard that he probably strains something. "Barton, I don't know how you've lasted this long on an op with him, he’s the absolute worst person to try and work with."

"Hey, lay off," Clint says, and he thinks it comes out pretty casual but Tony and Bucky both stare at him like he's grown an extra head. Luckily he's saved from having to run his mouth out of the situation by Nat, who calls him over and promptly wrestles him into a suit. He does ask if he can get changed somewhere with a little privacy but then she looks at him like he's grown an extra head so he gives in and strips off right then and there. God he hopes Bucky is watching. Wait, no, he hopes Bucky isn't watching. Fuck, he doesn't even know anymore. 

He's nine tenths of the way ready when Bucky finally comes over to him. Clint spreads his arms to show off his fitted black suit, not even bothering to tell himself he's not looking for approval. 

"You'll do," Bucky says, but then reaches out and tugs Clint’s tie loose. 

"Aw, tie, no!” Clint protests. “That took me ages!" 

"Which idiot taught you to do a tie?" Bucky grouches. "You wouldn’t even make it through basic training looking like that, come here."

Clint swallows hard as Bucky steps right up to him, brow furrowed as he tugs at Clint’s tie, deftly tying it. His fingers move smooth and confident and Clint doesn’t dare look because he knows what those fingers look like unbuckling a belt, tugging on hair, threaded between his own and pressed back into a pillow.

Bucky’s eyes are on his and that’s possibly worse than watching his hands. Bucky swallows hard and Clint sees the way his throat moves. It’s somehow more intimate than anything they did last night and it’s terrifying.

“Boys,” Natasha calls. “We need you.”

Bucky steps away from Clint immediately. Clint’s mouth opens, finding himself wanting to say something. What that something should be, he has no idea. Maybe it’s best to keep his mouth shut; he really doesn’t want to encourage or invite any more weird moments.

Bucky’s caught somewhere between scowling and blushing as he turns to Natasha. “Boy? I’m literally older than all of you combined.”

“Only just,” Tony says. “Alright old man. Get you and your sidekick over here.”

Clint stops dead. “Sidekick!?”

“Not now,” Bucky says, pained. He slots his metal hand under Clint’s arm and steers him back over to the others, just as Tony throws up a hologram schematic of the mansion. Sharon and Nat stand on the opposite side, Nat’s expression all too knowing through the blue glow.

“Alright,” Clint says. He reaches up to tug at his tie. Without looking, Bucky reaches across and smacks his hand down. “Let’s do this shit.”

Seeing as between them their transport options consist of either a motorbike or a beat-up Ford, they’re driven to the auction in one of Tony’s cars, windows blacked out and plates changed. It’s a sleek black Bugatti that probably cost more than Clint’s earnings from SHIELD to date, and knowing Tony, is  loaded with more tech than the batmobile. 

“Think there’s booze in here?” Clint asks, sitting back and looking around for hidden compartments. “I refuse to believe Stark has a chauffeur-driven vehicle without a minibar.”

There’s no answer and he glances up to see Bucky staring at him, gaze so intense that Clint’s surprised it doesn’t actually burn. “What?” he says, even as Bucky looks down at the phone in his hand. Bucky just grunts so Clint resumes his search; he doesn’t find any alcohol but he does find two tasers, a portable defibrillator, a pair of silk boxers, three rolexes that all show different times, a 16gb hello-kitty USB memory stick, and a copy of Scientifica America with notes scrawled all over the margins. The closest he gets is a pack of multi-coloured cocktail umbrellas, which is pretty dumb considering there’s no cocktails to put them in. 

“He won’t have booze in here since Steve got on his case worrying about him driving while drunk,” Bucky says. “And you know, once Steve gets on about something…”

Clint drops the underwear, screwing up his face in disgust. “Could have told me that before I touched these.”

“You eat food off the floor on a regular basis.”

“That’s different to accidentally grabbing Stark’s undies,” Clint complains. “Are we there yet?”

The moment he looks up again he sees Bucky’s head snap away, all at once very interested in what he can see out of the window. Clint feels the first rumble of irritation; they don’t have time for any bullshit and Bucky seems to be caught up in something in his head.

He tries to think about the mission, about Steve, about how he’s going to pull this off without his bow and without running his mouth. It’s going to require putting a lot of trust in Bucky, which admittedly seems easier to do than it would have done a week ago.

They finally pull up to the mansion that’s hosting the auction, the driver giving them a discreet signal as he eases the car up to the wrought-iron gates. Bucky squares his shoulders and intensifies his scowl. Clint grins and slips his sunglasses on before schooling his face into a neutral ‘I-am-bored-of-this-shit’ bodyguard expression. His heartrate picks up slightly and he takes a slow deliberate breath, focussing the adrenaline into mission-mode.   

“How’s your Russian?” Bucky asks as the car is waved through the gates.

“Hit and miss,” Clint admits and Bucky grimaces. “I know some directions and basic conversation, and also ‘shut up’, ‘idiot’, ‘don’t shoot’ and ‘I’m an Avenger.’”

“Well definitely don’t use the last one,” Bucky says. “Okay, if you hear the word idiot, I’m saying ‘get this idiot out of my face,’ so feel free to intimidate anyone who I say that about.”

“Gottit,” Clint says. “Sure we should be calling people idiots, though? Isn’t that like picking a fight?”

“After reading his file, I think it’d be weird for this guy to not be picking fights,” Bucky says. “I think a bit of aggressive posturing is fine. Maybe try and resist throwing hands unless completely necessary.”

“Yes boss,” Clint says and Bucky throws him a dirty look. 

“Take this seriously.”

“I am!”

“You’re being a wise ass.”

“You are my boss in this cover, boss,” Clint says. “Which you would have just blown, by the way.”

“We’re not even inside yet,” Bucky snaps back. “Christ, give me a break.”

“You give yourself a break,” Clint retorts, which is pretty weak as far as comebacks go but hey, it at least shuts Bucky up. Clint returns to glaring out of the window, watching as the car creeps up a magnificent driveway that’s flanked by vast gardens on either side. Ahead the drive splits into two, sweeping around a huge fountain that sits in front of the house. House is a definite misnomer here though; Clint swears that this towering monstrosity with its actual spires and hundred of huge glass windows would make a Vanderbilt jealous.

It’s not just the building; on the driveway are countless expensive looking cars, clearly showing that the attendees are here with big money. There’s a purple lamborghini that Clint considers stealing for half a second, before he remembers he’s an Avenger so stealing is bad, even if it is from bad guys. Climbing out of the cars - or being let out of the cars by bodyguards and chauffeurs in some cases - are people dressed to the nines, all fancy suits and expensive dresses. Tony or even Natasha would fit right in here and probably love the chance to dress up. Clint is honestly less thrilled. 

The car rolls to a stop next to a sweeping set of stairs that lead up to huge front doors. There’s security standing at the bottom and top of the stairs, all clearly armed. Clint turns to see Bucky’s reaction to find that yet again, Bucky is already staring at him.

The admiration of the mansion is promptly replaced by irritation at Bucky. “Why’re you looking at me like that?!”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, sounding equal parts helpless and frustrated.

“Quit it,” Clint says, and shoves open the car door, attempting to climb out before he’s unclipped his belt. “Keep it together, we need to be on top of our game if we want to find Steve.”

“Чтоб у тебя хуй во лбу вырос,” Bucky snaps, which is either a genuine insult or him getting into character, Clint doesn’t know. Either way, he ignores him, climbs out of the car and walks around to open Bucky’s door. Bucky climbs out, adjusting his cufflinks. Behind them another car pulls up and a man climbs out in a honest to god white tuxedo. 

“Looks like the bad guys are all for showing off,” Clint mutters. 

“Well, even scumbags need to let their hair down once in a while,” Bucky says, eyes on a woman with a glittering back dress. “She’s Hydra.”

“I’m not gonna ask how you know that."

“Don’t be a dick,” Bucky mutters, sounding tired. “We’ve been getting on, I kind of want to keep it that way.”

“You mean we’ve been having sex,” Clint corrects.

Bucky stops dead and just stares at him for a moment, stares at him in a way that makes Clint think he’s done something wrong, but then Bucky is turning away and pulling a phone out of his jacket pocket, looking bored.

Only because this mission is about Steve, Clint lets it go. He gestures up towards the doors and Bucky glances up and nods, heading up towards security with Clint following him like a shadow. Bucky glowers his way through security with his hands shoved in his pockets and Clint is ready to follow suit without saying a word, when he catches sight of one of the men who is checking people’s names against a list. He stops his jaw dropping by the barest of margins because the sheer audacity is impressive even for the Avengers. 

“Evening,” he says as a bearded Coulson checks Bucky’s ID and then ticks him off on the list he has tucked into a big leather-bound notebook. Coulson just glances at him and gives him a bland smile. Dear God, if Clint doesn’t make fun of that beard in the next ten seconds he’s going to explode. “If Sir would like to head to the ballroom, drinks are being served before the auction begins,” Coulson says without looking at them, eyes drifting over Clint to look out of the front doors. 

“Outstanding,” Clint mutters, falling into step with Bucky as they step into the entrance hall. He almost falters because this place puts Avengers mansion to shame and he’s only seen as far as the atrium; it’s a huge marble-floored space with twin staircases on each side, framing a fountain the size of a swimming pool that’s full of lazily swimming koi. Above them is a huge domed skylight, letting the last of the early evening sunlight filter into the space. 

As well as the staircases, there’s four doors leading off of the space which really needs a better name than ‘entrance hall’. He remembers thinking that it seemed large on the plans that he studied, but nothing could really have prepared him for just how big it is in person. If the rest of the house is as big then it’ll definitely work in their favour; one wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and someone could get easily lost. Playing dumb and lost is pretty much known as pulling a Barton in Avengers’ circles. 

“Okay, boss?” he asks casually, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“No,” Bucky replies with a scowl, suddenly sporting a faultless Russian accent. “I do not like this place.”

“You need to relax,” Clint says and the scowl intensifies into a look of pure venom. Ouch. Clint’s not had anyone look at him like that since he cheated on Jess. Feeling slightly unsettled, Clint drops back to follow half a step behind Bucky as he leads them into the ballroom. 

It takes Clint a moment to parse through all the layers of sound: the murmur of voices, the laughter, the clink of glasses. His eyes work a lot quicker than his ears though and he quickly takes in the dark wood and rich velvet furnishings. There are twelve large circular tables, each with a softly glowing lamp in the centre; that, and the way the heavy curtains are pulled over the windows, makes the whole room seem dim and smokey like the club in Berlin. It’s got kind of the same vibe as the club actually, except there’s less sex and drugs on show. Still, it feels decadent and dangerous, full of carefully laced tension. 

It all seems very formal and somewhat classier than Clint was expecting, although on second glance some of the characters look rather rough and unfriendly under their suits and dresses. The majority though, just look like regular rich people, not the slightly less regular evil rich people. Clint is busy looking from table to table, scanning the faces he can see. Shit - there’s a few that he’s going to have to avoid. “Boss,” he murmurs. “There’s some people here who might recognise me.”

Bucky nods. “Stay close,” he says. “Don’t panic.”

“Who’re you talking to?” Clint replies, wishing he could kick Bucky in the back of the leg. “I’m a professional.”

“Мудак,” Bucky retorts. “Keep your eye on security.”

“Stop telling me what to do.”

“I am your boss,” Bucky says. “It is my job. And your job is to keep an eye on security.”

Clint does, not because Bucky told him to, but because he is a professional, no matter what facade he presents to Bucky and the rest of the world. He counts six security guards in total: two are standing by the doors, beneath a balcony which would provide excellent sight lines if he could get up there. Two more are over to the left, in front of the curtained windows. The final two are at the far end of the room, in front of a raised stage. They’re all armed, but look fairly relaxed, seemingly happy to watch and roll their eyes at the indulgence. 

Bucky jumps a mile as a waiter appears at their elbow, offering a tray of drinks. Clint instinctively presses a hand to Bucky’s back, frowning at the waiter who takes a discreet, shuffling step back. Clint shakes his head at the waiter - he’s not dumb enough to take a drink from someone at an event literally run by a group of people who want him dead - and they’re shown to seats on a table already occupied by two bored looking women. They both have puffy blonde bobs and are wearing blazers in salmon pink and royal blue over matching pressed white blouses. Bucky nods at them both but doesn’t speak; Salmon Pink looks away but Royal Blue nods back before looking at Clint, giving him a clearly interested up and down as she sips at a martini. Great, just what he needs, to be checked out by someone who looks like an evil real-estate agent.

“So, where are you from?” Royal Blue asks Clint, mouth curving in a way that borders on leering. 

“I work for him,” Clint says shortly. Bucky looks over, scanning the woman derisively as he reaches into his jacket to pull out a hip flask. He picks up a tumbler of water from the table, sniffs it, pours the water out onto the floor and then fills the glass with what looks like whiskey. 

“American women,” he says with disgust. “No thank you.”

Royal Blue rears back in offense, but Salmon Pink just rolls her eyes. “Behave, Nancy. Have better taste than the bodyguard of some Russian crook, please.”

“Now, now, let’s all get along,” Clint says as Bucky shifts in his seat, just slightly. “We’re here for the auction, not to make friends.”

“Likewise,” Salmon Pink says, eyes back on the stage. Nancy-Royal-Blue gives Clint a look of loathing, which is an incredibly swift turnabout from the bedroom eyes she was shooting him not ten seconds ago. Christ, he’s had people change their mind about him before but he’s never had it happen that quickly and in such a way that makes him wish he were wearing body-armour.

Clint is about to make his excuses and go wandering to try and find any clues to Steve's whereabouts when something finally happens. The lights all go dim like they're in a movie theatre, leaving only the stage illuminated. Bucky elbows him hard and he looks up to see a tall man with dark hair take the spotlight, smoothing down his expensive suit jacket. He's very handsome but there's something cruel about his face that Clint doesn't like, not one bit. He bets that the guy was the kind of kid who liked pulling wings from butterflies. 

“Ladies and gentleman,” the man says with the barest hint of an Italian accent. His voice is soft and silky and every head in the room turns to him. "I am Andrea Romano and I will be hosting this evening's Items of Curious Interest Auction. On behalf of our benefactors, I hope you all have a pleasant, safe evening. We ask that every attendee tonight treat each other with civility and courtesy. Obviously we do not wish to ask anyone to leave..." He pauses and gives a smile which doesn’t reach his eyes before mock-wagging his finger. “But bad behaviour will mean you will be asked to leave, and you will miss out on the chance for a once-in-a-lifetime purchase.” 

Bucky glances at Clint then looks back to Romano, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. Clint instinctively sticks out his foot, finding Bucky’s under the table and hooking his ankle underneath Bucky’s. Clint knows that Bucky’s finding this harder and harder with every passing second, and the moment anyone mentions Steve, he’s liable to either break down, break cover or break a glass. Maybe all three.

The host clears his throat, but there’s no need; even Clint could hear a pin drop with how quiet the room has suddenly gone. “We will commence this evening’s auction by talking through the list of exhibits and then allow our esteemed guests a short reprieve to make their decisions," he pauses, eyes flickering to the security by the doors. "This time will be especially valuable, as in the name of fairness, we will be limiting each patron to one item only, apart from where items come as sets. You may bid on multiple items in the case you do not win an item that you are interested in, but once you have purchased an item you are not permitted to buy another."

There's a ripple around the room, disgruntled mutterings and hushed conversation.

“Who knew that these guys were so into being fair,” Clint mutters, and Bucky kicks him under the table. 

“The aim of this is simple,” the host says silkily. “It will prevent anyone from having a monopoly over our items, so please think carefully about where you wish to place your bid.”

Clint’s unwillingly impressed. It’s definitely a way to stop any evil faction getting too powerful, though he’s not sure anyone will pass up a chance to bid on Captain America. He does a casual sweep of the room to see that many people are in heated debates with each other, or are on phones and looking troubled.

In his pocket, his own phone buzzes. He pulls it out to find a message from an unknown number. 

Your bow is in the bathroom on corridor C

He holds out the phone to Bucky who frowns and shakes his head. Presuming that translates as ‘no you cannot go check on it right now, stay put,’ Clint huffs and texts back. 

If there's web on my bowstring I'll kill you

“Without further ado,” the host says, gesturing behind him. A projector screen slides smoothly down, and the whole atmosphere in the room changes; everyone suddenly seems more alert and tense. “Lots one and two.”

On the screen comes a picture of two tightly-sealed canisters, one containing a sizeable chunk of glittering blue-black metal and the other a rod of pale silver. Next to the image are several lines of text that seems to be technical details, and a starting price that makes Clint’s eyes water. “Whoa,” Clint says. “That’s-”

“Two point two kilograms of pure vibranium,” the host says to a ripple of appreciative murmuring. “Lot two is nine hundred grams of pure adamantium.”

There’s a louder wave of hushed conversation as two black-suited goons appear on stage, wheeling a trolley between them. The two canisters sit atop the trolley, looking fairly innocuous apart from the fact they’re probably worth more than the mansion they’re currently sitting in.

“I suppose they are not ethically sourced,” Bucky says, still in that unnerving Russian accent. Clint snorts with laughter and across the table, the two women both glare. Clint just stares belligerently back. 

“Moving on to lots three, four and five,” the host says, looking very pleased as pictures of three men appear on the screen. He’s almost gloating. “We have three highly sought after opportunities to meet with members of the US senate and a member of the House of Lords of the United Kingdom. All three gentlemen are highly influential within their respective fields and are...let us say they are willing to take on board suggestions and advice from whomever they meet with.” 

Clint is dying to make a smartass comment. He’s biting the inside of his lip hard enough to hurt. If only Steve were here; the knowledge that there’s corruption at the heart of the senate would have sent him into a real rage, and Clint thinks that angry Steve is one of the more awe-inspiring things about being an Avenger.

“Lot six, a prototype pulse cannon from Hammer industries,” the host says, and his goons reappear with a trolley atop which sits a gun that looks like it should be wielded by someone of Thor’s stature.

“Lot seven through nineteen are available for multiple purchase,” the man says smoothly, and Clint’s eyes go wide as the screen shows a line of young girls who are all looking down at the floor, hands held demurely in front of them. It’s the Widows, the girls from the boat. Even though their faces are blurred, Clint recognises the one who headbutted him in the face, right on the end of the line. Bucky’s hand goes to Clint’s knee and Clint grabs it, squeezing tightly. 

“Trained by the Red Room. Highly skilled. Highly specialised,” the host says. “No allegiance, yet.” 

Bucky’s hand is trembling minutely. Clint grasps it tighter, hoping that Bucky can keep it cool. He doesn’t hear the host talking about lots eleven, twelve and thirteen, too busy focussing on Bucky. It’s only when he catches a flash of red, white and blue out of the corner of his eye that he turns his attention back to the auction; it’s difficult though, because at the same time, Bucky clenches his hand so hard that he has to muffle a yelp.

Steve’s shield.  

Carried on stage by one of the goons, held out on display. Clint feels a surge of rage. How dare they. He wants to run up on stage and grab it, though he is aware that that seems a pretty good way to get shot or stabbed or both. 

“A familiar sight to some,” the host says, and there’s a smattering of mean laughter. “A shield made of pure vibranium, which will probably need redecorating,” he says to more snickering from the audience. 

“Which leads us to lot fifteen,” the host says and Clint tugs his hand free out of Bucky’s because he has a good idea about what’s coming next and if he’s right then Bucky will end up breaking his fingers. 

And then there he is. There’s a round of applause and cat-calling as the goons wheel on a vertical chamber-tube, like the ones that the Red Room used for cryo-freezing. This one, however, is filled with a strange green-yellow liquid, and suspended in the liquid is Steve. He’s naked save for a mask strapped over his mouth and nose, and his eyes are closed.

“это пиздец,” Bucky spits out. 

Clint sets his hand on Bucky’s wrist, a warning or a comfort or maybe both. Luckily, the rest of the room are also spitting curses and making comments, and they will have just assumed that Bucky’s anger is directed at Captain America, not the people who are responsible for him being like this.

Fuck. How are they going to get him out of there? Every person in the room probably has some beef with at least one Avenger; even counting the other teams, they're ridiculously outnumbered. 

The goons park the chamber on the stage between the shield and the gun from Hammer industries. One of them salutes and the room echoes with mocking laughter. 

“And thus concludes this evening’s items,” the host says. “Now, please take your time to have a drink and think about your options before bidding begins.”

The room breaks out in conversion. Across the table, Royal Blue and Salmon Pink immediately get their phones out and start comparing notes, speaking in hushed tones. Clint hasn’t got a hope of parsing what they’re saying but from what he can lipread and by the way they both keep glancing covetously at Steve, Clint has a good idea what they're planning to bid on.

That's it. Clint isn't going to just sit here while Steve is ogled and mocked by the goddamn bad guys, and he certainly isn’t going to let Steve end up in the hands of a pair of far-right, Fox-news-looking, evil witches. He leans over to murmur to Bucky, so close that his lips touch the shell of his ear. 

"Going to the bathroom."

"No," Bucky says, turning his head so quickly that they almost bump noses. 

"Yes," Clint counters. 

"No."

"Yes," Clint repeats and makes to get up. He only gets his ass about an inch off the chair before he feels metal fingers clamp onto his knee and squeeze. He just about manages to muffle a yelp but his unpinched knee bangs against the underside of the table. All the glasses jump, clinking way too loudly considering that they're meant to be keeping a low profile. 

Royal Blue Nancy looks over curiously. Her eyes narrow as she takes in Clint's probably pink cheeks and the way Bucky is leaning into him just a tad too much. 

"I didn't think they allowed that sort of thing in Russia," she says pointedly. "So it's not just American women you'd turn your nose up at, hmm?" 

"If you want to make my business your business, you may regret it," Bucky says coolly, which on one hand makes him sound like a super cool badass, and also definitely makes it sound like Adrin Ivanov is at least a little bit queer. Oh, well. Considering that Nat apprehended him, then Bucky accidentally presenting him as interested in men is the least of his worries. 

"Boss," Clint says, more insistent. 

"Fine," Bucky says, dragging his eyes away from Steve. “Let’s go.”

He drains his tumbler of whiskey and slams it back on the table before standing up. Clint wasn’t planning on it being a joint venture but honestly, he's only ever needed telling twice when people are telling him no. He follows Bucky out of the room, nodding at the security guys on the way out. Bucky’s striding ahead, hands rammed in his pockets and chin tucked down. Clint wants to touch him, to knead his fingers into the tension at the back of Bucky’s neck, but he doesn’t want to blow their cover or give goddamn Royal Blue Nancy any more ammunition.

There’s more security outside the bathroom. Fuck. Clint's not sure what the best course of action is: either he can let Bucky go into the bathroom while he stands outside like a well-trained bodyguard, or he can just tackle the guy and hope he can knock him out discreetly enough to not cause a scene. He's midway through a mental pros and cons debate when Bucky turns to him and starts speaking in rapid-fire Russian, gesturing at the bathroom door impatiently. 

The security guy looks at them, raising an eyebrow. 

“Uhhh,” Clint says, floundering. Bucky rolls his eyes, reaches into his jacket to pull out his wallet. He counts out three five-thousand rouble notes and presses them into the security guy’s hand before nodding and then pushing Clint into the bathroom. He catches the smirk of the security guy just before the door slams shut. 

"What the hell?" he hisses, pushing Bucky's hand off of his shirt. 

"You're usually good at thinking on the fly, what happened?" Bucky whispers back. "You looked like a rabbit in headlights out there."

"I did not," Clint says. “That guy thinks we’re having sex in here.”

“Whatever keeps him from checking on us,” Bucky says tersely. “Where’s your bow?”

Clint bites back a suggestion that they try having sex in the bathroom once they’ve rescued Steve, but he forgets clean about it as he looks around. Goddamn, this bathroom is bigger than his apartment. 

“I might move in here,” he says. 

"Stop fucking around and check the unit under the sinks," Bucky instructs, pressing his ear to the door. "Quick. We need to get moving before some creep buys Steve."

"That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear," Clint says, ducking down and opening the doors to the unit. He pulls out all the neatly stacked towels and makes a happy noise in his throat as he finds his bow and quiver stashed at the back. He pulls it free and presses a kiss to the riser, silently apologising to it for leaving it behind.

"How're we going to get out of here?" Clint asks, pulling his jacket off so he can slip his quiver on more comfortably. It's got his full range of arrowheads on there too, so he's good for anything from explosions to sticking down getaway vehicles. 

"Open the door, neutralise target, hide him in here," Bucky says. "Move quickly so that it doesn't arouse suspicion."

"Okay if we're going for speed then I vote we just crack that chamber Steve's in," Clint says, rolling up his sleeves. "If it works anything like the suspended animation shit that SHIELD has, it'll wake him automatically when the container's breached."

"Okay, you can take care of that. Where's the best place for the shot?"

"The balcony above the ballroom doors, did you see it?"

"Good call. I'll try and get backstage to stop them if they try moving him once you've broken the chamber. If they've got any sense they'll start evacuating when something goes wrong, so I say we just let them do it and focus on Steve."

Clint nods. "I'll meet you down there after I've taken the shot."

"Okay," Bucky says, and reaches for the door handle. "On three?" 

Clint nods, flexing his fingers on his bow. "Sure."

There's a long pause. Neither of them move. 

Clint frowns. "Are you counting?" 

"I thought you were counting."

"No, you suggested it so I thought you wanted to be in charge of counting."

"I was clearly inviting you to count."

"How the hell did you expect me to get that? I don't know all your tones of voices yet!" 

"Oh fuck it," Bucky snaps and yanks the door open. There's a thud, a yelp, a horrid crunching noise and then Bucky reappears, dragging the guy behind him. He dumps him on the floor and pulls the guy’s shoelaces loose so he can bind his hands and feet. If he’s tying him up then the guy’s not dead, Clint’s relieved to note. He doesn’t want to start an argument about how much murder is necessary on a job like this.

"Okay," Bucky says, eyes meeting Clint's. "You ready?" 

"I was born ready," Clint says and grins as Bucky rolls his eyes before turning to the door. His disguised metal fingers are on the doorknob before Clint blurts out,"Hey."

Bucky pauses. "Yeah?" 

His eyes are very grey, Clint thinks out of nowhere. Well, maybe it's not nowhere. Not after last night. 

He swallows hard. "Be careful." 

Bucky nods. "It's Steve, of course I'm gonna be careful. Besides, Nat will kill us if we’re not careful."

"No, not because of Steve, or Nat,” Clint says, wishing he were better at stringing meaningful sentences together when it matters. “Because of you. You be careful for you."

Bucky stares at him. "Thought it was just sex?" he says and then he's gone, slipping out of the room and shutting the door with a soft click. 

Clint stares at the closed door. "I don't know," he says a little helplessly. He shakes himself out of it, trying to focus on the mission. Ugh, this is why he needs to stop sleeping with his team mates. Nat had given him enough grief about Jess when it had started to affect his mission performance - he really doesn't want to hear what she has to say when she finds out a) he banged Bucky, and b) he screwed up a mission because of it.

He steals out of the bathroom, taking a back stairwell that he remembers from studying the plans, eventually working his way back to the balcony that sits above the double doors of the ballroom. In their absence, the auction has begun; the host is standing next to a gentleman with a very impressive moustache, who is calling out prices at a fairly steady pace. All across the room hands are going up, casual finger waves to signal another ten thousand here and there. It’s the vibranium that’s on sale but it’s Steve that Clint’s looking at, the only important thing in his sightline. 

He can’t see Bucky anywhere. Should he wait? Or should he just go for it? For all Clint knows, Bucky could be behind the stage already, waiting on Clint to make his move. They really should have ironed out a better plan, though considering a week ago they couldn’t even speak to each other civilly, they’re not doing bad.

Clint suddenly remembers Nat saying, “You know that you two would get on if you stopped hating each other for literally no reason”, all the way back when they were pretending to be tourists in Berlin.

God, it’s annoying when she’s right. 

“Okay, Steve, hold tight pal,” Clint whispers, reaching back to select an arrow from his quiver. “Busting you out in three…”

He doesn’t manage to get to ‘two’. An incredulous voice says, “Hey, what the hell are you doing?!” and turns around just in time to take a punch to the jaw from a burly security guard. He staggers back, ears ringing and jaw bursting with pain. Acting on instinct, he swings his bow around like he’s going for a home run and hits someone hard, but not hard enough. The guy is too close for him to get a shot off and so Clint opts for using his bow as a blunt-force weapon, ramming the guy back through the curtains of the balcony so they tumble out onto the corridor. Clint lands on top of the guy with a grunt, and cries out as the guy snaps his head forward to headbutt Clint right in the nose. The pain is instant and blinding and it gives the guy a momentary advantage; he rolls them over and grabs hold of Clint’s neck, squeezing hard with both hands. 

No, thinks Clint, refusing to let any panic set in. Absolutely fucking not, I’ve got shit to do.

He twists his arm up and digs his fingers into the man’s face as hard as he can; the man howls in pain and it gives Clint all the time he needs to kick the guy off of him completely. They both stagger upright but Clint is quicker; he grabs his bow and nocks an arrow, aiming at the guy’s face.

“Get down,” he orders the man. “Get down on your knees or I’ll-”

The man lifts his chin but before he can either argue or concede, his whole body seizes and he makes a strange gurgling sound. Clint frowns, momentarily confused, but then the guy keels over sideways revealing a knife in his back and Bucky standing behind him.

“Can you not go five minutes without needing me to rescue you?” Bucky hisses, pulling his knife out of the man’s back with a horrid squelchy-crunching sound. 

Clint’s mouth drops open. “Excuse you? Does this look like I need rescuing?”

“You’re covered in blood.”

Clint scowls, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. “He got a lucky shot in, doesn’t mean I needed rescuing.”

“Just say thank you,” Bucky says. “Did you break the chamber?”

“No, was about to when my friend here dropped in,” Clint says, glancing at the man who is lying in an ever-spreading pool of blood. “Was the murder really necessary?”

Bucky shoves past him and peers through the gap in the balcony curtains. “You were about to shoot him in the head so don’t you lecture me about murder. Christ, you’re as bad as Steve.”

“Never,” Clint says, edging up close to Bucky and trying to peer through the gap next to him. Bucky scowls and shoves his head away, which doesn’t help. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

Bucky ducks through the curtain, gesturing for Clint to follow. “I heard someone on their radios saying they saw movement on the balcony,” he whispers. “I came to check.” 

Clint ducks down low, crouching by the balcony wall. “You should be checking on Steve!” 

“Well I chose to check on you and that was my choice,” Bucky hisses. “Now will you please bust Steve out of that thing?” 

Clint peers over the wall, where the auction is still happening. It’s all well and good busting open the chamber but there’s literally fifty bad guys and gals between them and Steve. “And then what?” 

“I don’t know, we’ll think of something!”

“Fine,” Clint whispers. “On the count of three?”

“Oh for - just do it.”

Clint salutes Bucky and then does as he's told, carefully standing up and getting in position. Bucky stays crouched down by his knee, leaning slightly against him and watching through the gaps in the balcony railings. God Clint hopes Royal Blue Nancy doesn't spot them. He feels like a death at her hand would be more humiliating than painful and he’s embarrassed himself enough during this mission. 

Luckily, he can see that she’s still in her seat, watching the stage avidly. The host and auctioneer are centre stage and the two security goons are standing with their backs against the heavy curtains. Steve is still floating in his suspended-animation chamber.

Clint takes a breath, eyes on Steve. 

Three, he thinks. Two-

And without warning, one of the security goons vanishes through the curtain at the back of the stage, yanked through without a sound and disappearing without a trace. 

Clint drops down immediately, crouching beside Bucky as he tries to work out what the hell just happened. 

"What did you do?" Bucky hisses, wide-eyed. "Did you miss?" 

Clint's tempted to slap him. He probably would have done if they weren't at a critical point of the most important mission ever. 

"Of course I didn't miss, I didn't even get the shot off," Clint says. "Something got him from behind-" 

He doesn't even finish the sentence before the second guy vanishes too. It's not just Clint and Bucky that have noticed; there's murmuring from the crowd, confusion and wariness rising like a wave. 

"Natasha," Bucky whispers, eyes glued to the host who has finally noticed something is amiss. "It has to be."

"She said she was going to be dealing with the Widows," Clint whispers back. "What if-" 

A gunshot cracks through the room. The host lets out a strangled cry and clutches his stomach as red begins to bloom over his white shirt. He starts babbling in terrified Italian and the room instantly erupts into chaos. 

Security are shouting, trying to clear everyone out. Chairs are crashing backwards as people jump up. Glasses are smashing as tables are shoved out of the way. And over the ruckus caused by fifty or so people all enacting their best ‘every man for themselves’ policy, more gunshots. 

"Clint, now!" Bucky yells, pulling his own gun out. It’s turning into a free-for all down there; just behind the remnants of table five, Ulysses Klaue and his guys have started firing into the crowd, and Clint spots Monica Rappaccini’s bodyguard taking aim at them in return. 

"On it!" 

And with that, he jumps back to his feet, grabs an arrow and fires. It sails true and hits dead-centre of the glass case that Steve is held in.

Bucky looks aghast. "It didn't break! I'm going down-" 

"You think I'm some sort of amateur?" Clint says indignantly. "It's an explosive tip with a remote detonator."

"Then fucking detonate it!" Bucky shouts. 

Clint reaches back to his quiver and presses the button; there’s a momentary pause in which he sends up a prayer to whichever deities might be listening, and then the whole case shatters in an explosive cascade of glass and liquid, flooding the stage. 

He reaches back for another arrow, ready to carry on shooting - he thinks maybe Salmon Pink and Royal Blue could have their dispositions improved by taking an arrow to the ass. "Go," he shouts at Bucky. "I'll cover you-" 

Bucky doesn't get a chance; suddenly bullets are coming their way, pinging and cracking off the marble of the balcony. Clint grabs Bucky and shoves him back through the curtain, out of the line of fire. They make it all of two steps but then a body drops from above out of fucking nowhere, landing in front of them and blocking their escape. Clint’s hand goes to his quiver and he's got an arrow nocked before his brain registers what he's seeing. 

A tiny eight year old girl with a goddamn gun in each hand. 

The girl straightens up with the guns pointed at their faces, and Clint wildly thinks that he survived goddamn Natasha Romanov and now he's about to be murdered by a fucking prepubescent trainee Widow, but then the girl simply lowers the guns, bares her teeth at them and runs away. 

Clint scrambles after her but she's already halfway down the corridor, sprinting as fast as she can. "Thanks for not killing us!" he shouts. “Where the fuck did she come from?”

“Well that explains what happened to the guards and the host,” Bucky says. “I don’t know if Nat is a genius or a maniac.”

“What, you think she let them out?”

“She said she had a plan, didn't she?”

Clint shudders. “Oh man. I don’t want to think about them being on the loose. It’s like a horror film.”

“Then don’t think about them, think about finding Steve,” Bucky shouts, already heading back towards the stairs, turning left onto another corridor. “Come on, haul ass!”

“Hauling,” Clint says, and runs after him. “Where the fuck are we- whoa!”

He ducks as there’s another blast of gunfire, bullets slamming into the wall behind him. They skid to a halt at the top of the main staircases, instinctively pressing back to back. The atrium is like a boss fight level; there are fucking bad guys everywhere and they’re all trying to kill each other or get out the front door or both. Clint's shooting as fast as he can and Bucky's firing in the opposite direction; their only saving grace is that the bad guys are also all shooting at each other and no-one seems to have realised who Bucky and Clint are. As they do their best to hold their ground there's an unholy screech from the corridor they just came through; Clint looks over his shoulder and sees goddamn Royal Blue Nancy storming towards them with a semi-automatic in her hand, eyes blazing with anger.

“Shit!” he pants, looking around to see if there's an exit route. “Bucky!" 

"I'm a little busy!"

"You trust me?"

"What?!"

"Arms up!" 

Bucky obliges without question and Clint grabs him and throws himself backwards, sending them both crashing over the balcony. Bucky manages to keep shooting in the few seconds they have before the surface of the fountain comes rushing to meet them. They hit the water with a resounding splash; the pool is surprisingly deep and they sink for a good few seconds before they manage to right themselves, untangling their arms and legs. 

Kicking hard, they break the surface together, gasping and shaking gross fish water out of their eyes, only to come face to face with a man pointing a gun at them.

Some days, Clint thinks the universe really hates him.

“Hands up,” he barks. “Who are you working for? I said hands up!"

“You’re kidding right?” Clint says, attempting to raise his hands while still treading water. “How deep is this fucking fish tank!?”

“Hands in the fucking air!” the man shouts again, spit flying from his mouth. “Hands up or I’ll-”

There’s a clang, a familiar blur of red,white and blue ricocheting through the air and the man falls forwards into the pool with a resounding splash, out cold. Water dripping from his face, Clint looks up just in time to see Steve catch the shield in his hand, slotting it back onto his arm. Standing there in all of his righteous magnificence, he looks angrier than Clint has ever seen him, and of course he’s also completely naked. Oh jeez, Clint is never going to unsee that.

“Steve!” Bucky gasps, pushing the slowly sinking body away from him and scrambling for the side. “Steve, you’re okay!”

“Of course I’m okay,” Steve says grimly, crouching down and holding out a hand. He grasps Bucky’s metal hand in his and hauls him up out of the water.

“Have you been fighting naked?” Clint asks with a manic laugh, looking resolutely above Steve’s shoulders. Oh god. Their friendship is never going to be the same again.

Steve doesn’t answer, busy with setting Bucky on his feet. Bucky is barely upright before he’s throwing himself at Steve and hugging him tight enough to knock the wind from the guy.

“Jeez, Buck,” Steve half laughs, half gasps. “Let me go, and start shooting!”

Bucky does what he’s told because of course he does when it’s Steve. Steve turns to Clint and leans down to hold out a hand. Clint keeps his eyes firmly closed as Steve pulls him easily out of the fountain. 

“Grow up, Clint,” Steve says, sounding somewhere between fond and exasperated, which is how he usually sounds when dealing with Clint, to be honest. Clint wasn’t aware just how much he'd missed it until he’d heard it.

“You’re naked!” Clint protests. He’s had enough of seeing super-soldiers naked in the past twenty-four hours, not that he’s about to say that in front of Steve. “Where are your clothes?”

“Last time I closed my eyes, I was in Berlin,” Steve says. Somewhere behind them a Widow lets out a blood-curdling shriek and several fully-grown men scream in response. “My clothes are the least of my worries. Clint, get that guy out of the water before he drowns.” 

“What? He’s a dick,” Clint complains, but he does as he’s told and hauls the unconscious guy out of the pool. “Uhh, you sure you don’t want me to find some clothes?”

“I fought Nazi vampires naked, I can fight these guys naked,” Steve says, whirling round and flinging his shield at another target. “Took you guys long enough to find me.”

“You weren’t exactly easy to find!” Clint replies indignantly, picking his bow up and immediately picking off a woman on the balcony. “Bucky, eight o’clock!” 

Bucky turns without question, firing at the group of men who appear to be running away with the case of Vibranium. One falls and then several things happen in quick succession to take out the rest: Coulson steps through the doorway and smashes the lead in the face with a silver serving tray; a line of web appears with a familiar thwap and yanks the second and third up into the ceiling; a small girl with a garrotte in her hands leaps from atop a statue onto the shoulders of the fourth, taking him to the floor with an ease that’s only not astounding because of Clint’s familiarity with Natasha. 

Coulson walks over to crouch down next to the canister of vibranium. “Package secured,” he says, nodding to Steve. “Commander.”

“Coulson,” Steve replies. “So I take it the cavalry has arrived?”

“I believe Barnes and Barton deserve the credit,” Coulson says. “They’re the ones who tracked you down.”

“What, together?” Steve says, momentarily confused. “Bucky and Clint?”

Clint catches Bucky’s eye with a grin. Bucky’s mouth hitches in a half-smile before he turns away, pulling a bundle of zip-ties from his pocket to start tying up the bad guys. 

“I’ll need this story later,” Steve says, pointing a finger at Clint like he’s done something wrong, rather than simply working with Steve’s best pal. “Now let’s secure the perimeter and get this wrapped up.”

Bucky walks up, slotting a new clip into his gun and not looking at Clint. “You need to find some pants,” Bucky says to Steve, eyes still fixed determinedly on his gun. Clint frowns. Bucky’s gone through a staring phase, a scowly phase and is now in what looks like an avoiding-eye-contact phase, and Clint isn’t sure what’s going on in that no-longer greasy head of his. 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Steve shrugs.

“Yeah, of course you’d say that, Mister built-like-a-Greek-statue,” Clint grouches. “Get Parker to web you some underwear.”

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” Parker shouts from behind them. He webs up a bust of an ugly looking man with a monocle and flings it across the room to hit a fleeing man in the chest. “This stuff is really sticky. I don’t want to accidentally wax anything.”

“I’ll pass,” Steve says with a grimace. “Come on, we’ve got other priorities than finding me pants - where the hell that pulse cannon has gone, for starters.”

“Natasha’s in the building,” Bucky tells him. “And Sharon is on her way.”

“Okay, the pulse cannon can wait, let’s find me some pants,” Steve agrees. “Avengers, move out!” 

Sharon and the Maximoffs arrive with a contingent of shield agents fifteen minutes later, and after that it’s easy. Many of the auction’s attendees manage to get away but they still manage to round up an astonishing amount of bad guys, and they stop all of the weapons save for the pulse cannon from leaving the building. Clint’s not too worried about that one; knowing Hammer Industries’ track record the pulse cannon either won’t work or will blow up whoever is trying to use it. Either way, all they need to do is tell Stark that there’s some loose Hammer tech and he’ll make it a personal vendetta to track it down.  

Clint has never been quite so relieved for a win; it doesn't really bear thinking about what would happen to the Avengers without Steve. 

It’s not Steve that Clint’s looking for now, though. Sharon will want to yell at him for getting himself kidnapped and even though it’s always funny to see Steve and Sharon go head to head, he’s got someone else on his mind. 

He finally spots dark hair, pale grey eyes and a scowl as he ducks back into the ballroom. Bucky’s leaning against the edge of the stage, bloodstained and battered and pulling Clint towards him like he's some sort of magnet. Clint has absolutely no idea what he's going to say to Bucky when he gets there, but he somehow knows there are things that need to be said. 

He takes a deep breath and goes to walk over to Bucky but before he can, Bucky’s head turns. Clint’s heart leaps up into the bottom of his throat but Bucky’s gaze passes him by, brightening as he spots someone else.

Steve.

Now wearing a pair of tactical pants but no shirt, he strides over to Bucky and pulls him into a hug. They’re both laughing as Bucky makes a half-hearted attempt to wiggle free before giving in and wrapping his arms around Steve’s shoulders. Sharon appears, rolling her eyes but smiling down at her tablet computer when Steve looks away.

That’s that then, Clint thinks as Steve and Bucky talk, overlapping each other and both gesticulating wildly. Bucky’s looking more relaxed than he has done literally ever, and Steve’s looking far too happy for someone who nearly got sold to a skeevy Hydra guy. The mission is over, Steve is back, everything is wrapping up.

It suddenly hits Clint. The mission is over. He and Bucky have got no reason to be in each other’s company any more. Mouth twisting in a rueful smile, Clint takes one last look at Bucky then walks away.

He heads from the ballroom back out into the atrium, sitting down heavily on one of the marble steps, tugging his tie loose and rubbing gingerly at his aching nose. It’s deserted except for the koi swimming around, none-the-wiser. In the distance, he can hear voices barking orders and footsteps and the beeps of comm units: the familiar sounds of SHIELD wrapping up an operation. 

He doesn’t know what to do, now. He doesn’t think he and Bucky will go back to hating each other, but he doesn’t know what should take its place. They fucked up enough in the course of this mission that he doesn’t think Sharon will be putting them on rotation together anytime soon, so what are they meant to do if they’re not fighting about Nat or rescuing Steve?

“Hey.”

He looks up and smiles tiredly at Natasha, relieved to see her in one piece. Her eyes flick over him in a familiar check as she walks over to sit next to him. Apparently satisfied that he’s not injured or in any trouble, she relaxes, leaning back on the steps and stretching her legs out alongside his. 

“Hey,” he says, leaning into her so their shoulders brush. He really has missed her while they’ve been off doing their respective parts to save Steve. “Do I have to do paperwork already?”

She smiles, looking out over the pool. “No. You did a good job.”

Clint nods absently, still staring absently at one of the slowly revolving koi. “We had plenty of help. Speaking of help, was it you who let the Widows out?"

Natasha nods. "All but two of them."

"Why not all of them?"

Natasha looks a little sad. "I let out all of the ones who believed me when I said neither Hydra or the Red Room were their friends. I told them if they agreed to help, we'd help them build new lives here, with new families. The eldest two weren't having any of it. They'd been there too long."

"So what happens to them now?"

Natasha looks down at the floor. "SHIELD will keep them in protective custody. I'll help try and rehabilitate them, but it might take a while."

"Brainwashing's a bitch," Clint says, and Natasha nods.

"Isn't it just," she agrees, sighing and tipping her head sideways to rest on his shoulder. Silence falls but it doesn't matter; Clint's known Nat long enough that they can easily sit in silence together, and he knows her well enough to understand that she sometimes needs quiet to decompress after a tough mission. Considering that she's had to deal with Clint and Bucky as well as Steve and the Widows, it's probably been a hell of week for her too. 

There’s a shout from the corridor to their right, and they look up as a man wearing a torn suit and a terrified expression runs in and straight past them, out through the front door.

“We should probably go get him,” Clint says without moving.

Nat makes no effort to get up. “Wanda and Pietro are out front.”

“They probably don’t need our help,” Clint shrugs.

“No,” Nat agrees and they go back to sitting in amiable silence. God, Clint would kill for a pizza right now. And to be eating his deep-pan pepperoni while either in his bed or his bathtub. He might go back to Berlin on a three day bender to celebrate the win. Maybe that club is still open, though considering its dodgy Hydra connections, probably not.

“So,” Nat says. “You and Bucky.”

Clint groans. “No. Not a thing. Moment of madness.”

“Sure,” Nat says, sounding about as convinced as she would be if Clint had said he’d given up archery. “Be careful with him. He’s more vulnerable than he lets on.”

Clint turns to look at her sharply but there’s no joke in her expression.

“Nat…”

“He told me,” she says. “While I was cutting his hair.”

“Told you what?” Clint asks, flummoxed. The haircut was before the night of ill-advised and frankly filthy sex, so what exactly is she talking about?

She just shakes her head. “You’re my best friend,” she says, abruptly changing the subject. “I’m sorry I let the lines blur for so long.”

And there it is. Clint’s surprised to find that it doesn’t hurt to hear her say it - if anything, he’s relieved. “Yeah. I am too,” Clint says, nudging her shoulder with his. “We should go for a beer later.”

“You should take Bucky for a beer.”

Clint snorts. “Are you kidding? We still don’t like each other.”

Nat rolls her eyes, pulling out her phone. “Hold on, Sharon’s calling. For god's sake, I told her to take Steve and get the hell out of here.”

“You playing matchmaker everywhere today?”

“I would if you idiots would let me,” she says and answers the phone. “You better be calling me to tell me you and Steve will be uncontactable until Monday morning- yes, fine. On the way.” She puts her phone away then leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead. “You and Sharon need your heads banging together. You could both be somewhere else having indescribably hot sex with a super-soldier, but no, you’re both still here. Idiots.”

Clint opens his mouth but all that comes out is a strangled sound and he’s reduced to goldfish-gaping at Natasha’s back as she walks away. “You’re an idiot,” he manages to shout at her back but she doesn’t even bother to turn around. 

Sighing, he concedes that while she doesn’t know what she’s talking about concerning Bucky, maybe she has a point about still being here. He takes a moment to collect himself, then pushes himself up, deciding he’ll sneak off and get told off for not checking in after he’s had a decent amount of sleep.

He gets as far as the front door. 

"Clint."

He stops, feeling something odd bloom in his ribcage as he slowly turns around. Hope, maybe, if hope somehow felt like a weird chest ache combined with butterflies. 

"Hey," he says. 

Bucky’s standing there, arms folded across his chest. He’s taken the veil off of his arm and the metal plates shine dully in the light. "Were you about to leave?" Bucky says, frowning like he’s a little confused. Confused or annoyed, it’s still hard to tell.

"Well, yeah," Clint says. He’s confused too, mostly because a part of him wants to reel Bucky in and kiss that stupid sulking mouth, even though the mission and their dalliance is over. “Mission done. You were busy with Steve, and Nat said we were done, so. Thought I'd go home and watch Bake Off."

"Oh," Bucky says. "You spoke to Nat?" 

"Yeah."  

“What about?”

“Just stuff,” Clint says. He kind of wants to tell Bucky to mind his own business but he’s not sure how it’d land. It feels very far away from how in tune they had been during the mission, how close they’d felt that morning while they’d been in bed talking.

Silence falls. It's long and awkward. 

"So...” Clint says. “Good work today, huh? Maybe we should team up again, if Sharon lets us."

"Maybe."

Clint’s shoulders slump. Who is he kidding? He and Bucky were only in sync for Steve’s sake. Christ, this is like the time he had to talk to Jess after she found out he’d been cheating. Worse, because at least then he’d known that he’d crossed a line. With Bucky, the lines are all over the place and half of them are invisible anyway. "Alright, see you around," he pauses. "You need a lift back?" 

"No, Nat says she'll take me."

"Oh, okay,” Clint says, now feeling like he’s been punched in the chest. Why would Nat tell Clint to ask Bucky out and then offer to take Bucky home? He’s so confused. His head hurts. “Whatever,” he says wearily. “See you at debrief. Or the next weekly team meeting."

Bucky nods, staring at his boots. "Okay," he says, and then he turns back around and walks away without looking back.

Clint tries not to think about it. He just wants to get home now, to curl up in his blankets, take his hearing aids out and sleep for a week. It’s well past midnight when he finally tracks down Tony’s car, the night air fresh and cool on his skin. Coulson is there at the gates as Clint pulls away and it’s only when he’s twenty minutes into the drive that he realises that he drove past him without making a joke about his beard.

Clint’s life seems to be turning into one missed opportunity after another.

What will Bucky be doing now? Oh man, was Natasha telling Clint that they were only friends now so she could go off with Bucky? Clint doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle it if that’s the case. And any normal non-super-spy person wouldn't tell Clint to ask someone out and then take said someone home with them, but Nat is a super spy and her motivations aren't always the easiest threads to follow. 

Fuck it. He’ll quit the Avengers and go start his own superhero team on the West Coast. He’ll take the Maximoffs with him; they’re about the only Avengers that haven't ever thrown about their opinions about his animosity with Bucky. He doesn’t think they’d care if they found out they’d slept together. Besides, Wanda is literally the strongest Avenger so it’s a good tactical decision to call dibs.  He'd take Steve too if he thought he could get away with it, or if he didn't know that Bucky would follow him like a well-trained puppy.  

The car eats up the miles, heading through the night back towards the city. Clint puts the radio on and tries not to think about Bucky, about how he's a completely different person to the man he knew only a week ago. It’s weird; on the surface it would seem that Clint and Bucky were still the bitching, bickering pair that they’ve always been, filled with mistrust and a lot of emotional baggage. Maybe that’s still true, but now there’s something else there. Not just the sex, either. 

Ugh. He’s going to have to go further than California to get over this, he can feel it.

He gets home well past midnight. The moment he's through the door he strips out of his stupid bodyguard suit and gets into his sweats, then orders pizza and puts on Bake Off. He manages half an episode, and then someone starts making macaroons, so he turns it off again. 

He's flipping through the channels trying to find something - anything - that doesn't make him think about Bucky, when there's a knocking at the door. Assuming it's the pizza guy, he drags himself vertical and opens the door without bothering to put a shirt on. 

It's not the pizza guy. 

"Hey," Bucky says. He's still in his suit from the op and it doesn't look like he's been to his home or anyone else's. 

Clint blinks at him, wondering if the headbutt to the face earlier has caused concussion-related hallucinations. No, that's definitely Bucky standing there in front of him. Considering the last time they spoke Clint couldn't get two decent words out of him, he's got no idea why Bucky is suddenly turning up on his doorstep.

"It's two am, Barnes."

"Yeah, I know," Bucky says, looking at the floor. He reaches up to scratch the back of his head and then blurts out, "Hey, you want to go get coffee?" 

"It’s two AM,” Clint repeats, like Bucky’s an idiot. “Who drinks coffee at two AM?”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose with his metal fingers. “It’s not about the coffee,” he starts, and drags his hand down his face. “You know what, forget it.”

Clint can only stare at him. He’s acting all flustered and embarrassed, which makes no sense; Clint’s seen him throwing up, crying, and in what was technically a reverse cowgirl and none of that seemed to bother him. What the hell could be embarrassing him after all that? “Why ask me for coffee if it’s not about - wait. Wait. Are you asking me on a date?" 

Bucky screws up his face in disgust. "No," he says, then kicks his toe against the doorframe, shrugging. "Maybe."

Clint’s stomach does a strange swoopy thing. It’s not done that since the first time he kissed Nat, which he doesn’t want to think about right now. "That'd be…” he begins, trying to find the word. “...weird."

"We had sex and me asking you for coffee is what's weird?" Bucky says and then sighs, stepping back. "Forget it. I thought maybe… Never mind."

"No, wait, I thought too!” Clint says, reaching out and grabbing Bucky’s wrist. He’s glad that the veil is gone; he kind of likes the metal arm. “Okay, I'm not sure what I think, but there's something. Yes." Clint shakes his head to try and reset his scrambled thoughts, well aware that he’s babbling like a fool. "Ask me again."

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard that he probably strains something. "Fine. Okay, you complete and utter moron, do you want to go get coffee with me?" he asks, and his expression is somehow hopeful and still utterly irritated at the same time. 

Clint grins at him. “No.”

Bucky stares at him like he’d very much like to strangle Clint with his bare hands.

“How about you come in for coffee instead?” Clint says quickly. “We can have a watching-Bake-Off and probably having more sex date?”

And Bucky finally smiles, nodding as he shoulders his way into Clint’s apartment. “Works for me,” he says, pulling Clint in and kicking the door shut behind them.