Chapter Text
Tuesday, November 23
So… this looks bad.
Clint casts one last look around for his shirt, sighing, and zips his hoodie up over his bare chest. He opens the window, letting in a gust of frozen air and a spray of sleet, then with an ease borne from long years of practice — and wow, there’s a thought that should probably make him reconsider some life choices — he slides through.
The fire escape is one of the old Brooklyn ones that probably hasn’t been inspected since it was installed, and the ice-slicked ladder creaks alarmingly when he starts climbing down. His fingers start going numb by the time he makes it down the first flight. At least he’s only three floors up. He’ll just scoot down a couple more stories, figure out where the hell he is, and go home to his dog. Piece of cake.
Which is, of course, when he slips, scrapes the shit out of his elbow, bumps his chin on a ladder rung, narrowly avoids eating shit on the landing, stumbles backward, and goes ass over teakettle over the goddamn railing in a spectacular somersault. It’s only because of his circus training that he manages to grab the edge of the iron grate of the landing; he catches himself by his fingertips and just swings there, for a moment, gritting his teeth against the pain of a pulled muscle in his shoulder.
But, hey, that’s a very familiar pain, and he’s pretty impressed with his own reflexes, all things considered.
He tries to hoist himself back up, but everything’s too icy. The next landing is only a few feet below his dangling legs, so he swings experimentally, working up some momentum trapeze-style.
Yeah. Piece of cake.
Except as he’s about to let go, a voice somewhere overhead calls, “Barton?”
So of course he looks up, lets go a split-second too late, and goes windmilling through the air, cracking his head on something along the way, only to land on his back in a mercifully open — albeit over-fucking-flowing — dumpster.
Shit.
When he moves, something stabs into his lower back, where his hoodie is riding up. He hisses and rolls onto his stomach instead, only to end up with his face in someone’s compost.
Ow.
Also, ew.
For a moment all he can do is groan. That same oddly-familiar voice is talking to him from overhead, presumably shouting from an open window, but Clint can’t make out the words and he sure as hell doesn’t have enough air in his lungs to shout back. He wriggles, pulls his hand out of a split bag of something slimy — hopefully not a biohazard, but who knows — and raises it blindly in the air to give a thumbs up.
He flounders inelegantly upright, slip-sliding until he’s relatively vertical but somehow still buried up to his waist. There is no good way to wade through trash. His head spins and his stomach roils at the effort, so he crosses his arms on the edge of the dumpster, puts his forehead down on them, and breathes through his mouth for a minute, taking stock of all the places he hurts. It’s an extensive list.
He’s spent his whole life getting into trouble. He should really know better by now than to entertain the thought, at least it can’t get any worse… but he is a bonafide dumbass, so of course, that’s exactly what he thinks.
“What the hell?” comes that same voice.
Clint looks up and squints through the rain, only to see none other than James Buchanan Barnes — former Winter Soldier, semi-retired badass, and certified hottie — raising one unimpressed eyebrow at him. Barnes looks like he just stepped out of a GQ spread or some shit, too, with his black leather jacket and skintight jeans and bed-head.
And, to recap: Clint’s in a dumpster, soaking wet with a combination of trash juice and icy rain, probably rocking a whole drowned rat/hobo vibe. Because of course he is.
He’s also staring, slack-jawed and silent as his brain tries to process this whole series of unfortunate events.
“Hey, I know you,” Clint manages, which honestly is sort of an overstatement considering he’s only been in the general vicinity of the Notorious JBB for, like, two fights and a handful of funerals. He raises his hand and wiggles his fingers in a weak little wave.
Barnes gives him a look that reminds him painfully of Natasha; it’s totally blank, nothing that would generally be considered a facial expression, but something in his eyes manages to convey equal parts disdain and amusement.
“Are you drunk or just concussed?” he asks calmly.
Clint has to think about that one. The cold and the adrenaline have pretty much destroyed his remaining buzz, but also, it’s hard to tell, what with the goddamn concussion.
But that’s not Barnes’s problem, so Clint just says breezily, “I’m fine. No harm done.”
“You’re in a dumpster.”
“Not for long.”
Clint wriggles up, bracing himself on the edge, and almost executes a flawless jump down to the ground. Almost. Except for the part where he ends up tumbling out headfirst and landing on his ass instead. He sits up, groaning and brushing old coffee grounds off his shoulder.
“Ta-da,” he says, giving Barnes some very lackluster jazz hands. “See? Fine.”
Barnes heaves a sigh and extends a hand. Clint grasps his wrist and lets himself be hauled up to a standing position, and somehow manages to step on the hem of his own jeans in the process of getting his feet under him.
Rrrriiip.
There’s a long frozen moment — literally, it’s really fucking cold — where they both just stare at each other in disbelief, still holding onto each others’ wrists. Then Barnes tugs his hand back, mouth twitching like it’s taking all of his super-soldier strength not to laugh.
“Tell me that wasn’t what I think it was,” Barnes says.
Clint twists around to inspect the backside of his jeans. At least he found his boxer-briefs before he made his great escape. That still leaves a whole lot of pasty thigh exposed, though.
“Aw, pants,” Clint says sadly. “Fuck.”
Barnes shakes his head. “C’mon inside, let’s get you taken care of.”
“I can take care of myself,” Clint says sulkily, despite all evidence to the contrary. “Not like I’m some damsel in distress.”
“Damsel or not, you really want to walk around Brooklyn like that?”
He might have a point. The last thing Clint needs is to be made into a meme again. Or arrested for indecent exposure. Does the upper thigh/lower ass-cheek area count as indecent?
“It’s New York, nothing short of full-frontal counts as indecent,” Barnes says dryly, because apparently Clint said that out loud. “But mostly I meant that you’ll freeze to death. I bet I have some sweatpants that’ll fit you.”
Clint fucking hates accepting help, but his teeth are starting to chatter, and his knee, elbow, and head — hell, his entire fucking body — are throbbing like he’s going to be one giant bruise tomorrow (what the fuck else is new?) so maybe he should just suck it up.
“Thanks,” he says reluctantly.
He takes a step, stumbles on a goddamn banana peel, of all things, and almost ends up on his ass again. Barnes grabs him by the upper arm and steadies him.
“My hero,” Clint says, trying to cover his embarrassment with a wink and a sarcastic smile. “But if you expect me to express my gratitude with swooning and blowjobs, you should know I’m not that kind of damsel.”
That surprises him enough to get a huff of a laugh. Barnes is smirking at Clint as they start to walk out of the alley, and the expression looks good on him, holy hell.
If he keeps that up, Clint will totally be that kind of damsel. He feels a little dizzy.
That’s probably just the concussion talking, though.
“So, do I want to know why you just jumped out a window?” Barnes asks casually.
“In my defense, I was left unsupervised,” Clint mumbles, putting all of his focus on the task of walking in a straight line. It’s part of the truth, really; he was just having one of those nights where he couldn’t stand his empty apartment or the uninterrupted company of his own thoughts. He adds reluctantly, “And, uh… he didn’t tell me he was married.”
“You got something against doors?”
To get to the front door, he would’ve had to walk toward the yelling, which goes against one of the first lessons he learned as a child: in case of an argument, keep your distance.
“Fire escape seemed like a good idea at the time,” is what he says out loud. “I made a judgement call.”
Barnes punches in the door code to his building, giving him another of those long-suffering sighs.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Barton.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I have terrible judgement.”
Bucky hands Barton some extra clothes and shepherds him in the direction of the bathroom, more than a little concerned about the way he’s shivering.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Barton asks.
“Shower. Now.”
“Thanks,” Barton says, with a lopsided little smile.
“Try not to trip and break yourself even worse,” Bucky suggests, as the door closes behind him.
No sooner have the words left his mouth than he hears a muffled thump and a muttered curse. Bucky stares at the door helplessly for a second.
Then he sighs and heads to the kitchen, where he puts on a pot of coffee and digs out the first aid kit before pausing to have a quick panic attack.
His therapist is always talking about how he needs to make connections, to “build a meaningful life instead of just living,” to trust people again, but he barely trusts himself these days, let alone the rest of the world. He’s been putting so much effort into just… existing. Building his quiet, peaceful little routine. “Doing the work,” as Sam would say; sorting out the shit in his head. He’s been trying to figure out who he is — who he wants to be — and that’s just a whole lot easier when he’s alone.
That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway.
Bucky barely knows this guy, beyond the fact that his weapon of choice is Paleolithic, and now Barton’s here. In his apartment. In his shower. And he will have to continue being here for a while, because he’s definitely concussed and Bucky’s not the sort of asshole who will let him wander home on his own right now, especially because it’s probably his fault Barton fell in the first place, but —
Christ. He needs to breathe.
Not a big deal, right? Just because Barton’s the first person other than himself to step foot into his apartment for non-appliance-repair-related reasons. His therapist would be so proud. Bucky grits his teeth at the thought.
He looks around, trying to see his space through someone else’s eyes, and all he can see is the Spartan-ness of it; he doesn’t have any real furniture, beyond two barstools at the counter, the couch, and the TV; everything is clean, but bare, aside from the pillow and blankets on the floor.
He should probably pick those up.
Bucky bundles everything together and brings it back into his bedroom. Bedroom seems like a misnomer, seeing as he rarely sleeps there. He still ends up on the floor most nights, but he’s been trying, at least.
The “bedroom” has become more like a library, with two overflowing bookshelves along the wall and his worn armchair next to the window. He’s got it set up in the perfect spot, where nobody looking in the window can see him, but he can see down the alleyway to the street. Or, y’know, across the alleyway, if unusual movement happens to catch his eye.
He’s not sure what he was thinking, sticking his head out the window and shouting like that. Call it instinct; he’s conditioned to come to the rescue when he sees a reckless blond dumbass doing something stupid in a questionable Brooklyn alleyway.
Bucky’s making the bed when Barton emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, shirtless, with his towel-dried hair sticking up in a million directions. He’s holding the t-shirt Bucky loaned him, arm curled up as he tries to examine his scraped-raw elbow. He almost walks into the doorframe, but at least he doesn’t notice Bucky staring.
There’s a lot to stare at: abs and pecs and biceps, holy shit. It doesn’t help that the borrowed sweatpants are too big; they’re sagging low on his hips, showing off that vee of muscle that narrows in and draws his attention to the dark-blonde trail of hair that disappears under the waistband...
Bucky blinks a few times before realizing that Barton is talking.
“Huh?” he asks, scowling and hoping his blush doesn’t show.
“Didn’t want to bleed all over your shirt,” Barton says ruefully. “Stupid trash can stabbed me in the back. Literally.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Bucky mutters, leading him back toward the living room.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Barton sighs. He perks up when he sees the steaming pot of coffee. “Aw, for me? You really are my white knight.” He flutters his eyelashes dramatically in Bucky’s direction.
“You look like you’re having a seizure,” Bucky says gruffly, but he points at a stool and fixes them each a mug while Barton settles at the counter. “Sugar?”
“Nah, just hook up an IV and I’m good to go.”
“Cute. Careful, it’s hot.”
Barton ignores him, takes a too-big gulp, and makes a face.
“Ow,” he says, and keeps on slurping anyway.
“Right, let’s get you patched up,” Bucky says, busying himself with the first aid kit so he doesn’t think too hard about the obscene sounds of enjoyment Barton makes as he gets friendly with his coffee.
“You really don’t have to,” Barton mumbles, the tips of his ears suddenly pink. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
Bucky catalogs his visible injuries and thinks privately that trouble must be his middle name, but he doesn’t say anything.
Barton’s covered in bruises — little ones down his neck that might be fresh hickeys, but also, mottled yellow and green across his ribs on one side like he got kicked, and a livid purple welt on his upper arm that looks like it was made by a baseball bat. Then there are the butterfly bandages along his hairline, not to mention the scars of all shapes and sizes that decorate his torso.
As far as fresh injuries, he has a cut across his lower back, not particularly long but nasty and jagged-edged. Bucky grabs a bottle of antiseptic, opening it without looking at it, because he can’t stop staring.
There’s a cigarette burn scar on Barton’s back — right in the middle where he couldn’t possibly have made it himself — raised and knotted in a way that means it was bad, once, but it’s old enough that it’s barely discolored. It makes Bucky want to punch something; he tears his eyes away and looks at the freckles on Barton’s shoulders, instead. They’re small, oddly delicate, an even spray of them across the golden span of skin, and maybe that’s not a good place for him to look, either.
He flexes and clenches his right hand, trying to work out some of the tension in his fingers.
“Enjoyin’ the view, doc?” Barton asks. Bucky winces, but the tone is sarcastic, like he has no idea how right he is.
Barton glances back over his shoulder. Bucky can see a dimple and one corner of his smile, and he feels so flustered he forgets to deny it. He just blinks and looks down at his hands again, refocusing.
“This is gonna sting,” Bucky warns. He dabs gingerly at the cut. Barton doesn’t flinch.
“Hey, as long as it didn’t puncture any major organs, I’m happy.”
“That’s a low fuckin’ bar.”
“I’m a realist, what can I say?”
Silence falls while Bucky starts to clean the cut. He’s uncomfortably aware that this is probably the most words they’ve ever exchanged; hell, he’s not sure they’ve ever had a one-on-one conversation.
He swallows hard and then blurts out, “Sorry. Not great at the polite conversation thing.”
He feels Barton’s quiet chuckle under his hands.
“S'cool, kinda figured."
"Um. How've you been?"
"Do you actually want to make small talk? I can totally ask what you've been up to, but...”
Bucky makes a face Barton can’t see.
The last time they saw each other was at Stark’s funeral. Since then, Bucky stood trial for treason, said goodbye to his best friend, organized a prison break on behalf of a person he still has nightmares about, flew around the globe taking down a terrorist organization while wading through a goddamn minefield of his own PTSD triggers, and helped Sam fucking Wilson fix a fucking boat.
“Not really,” he says, grabbing the gauze.
“Kinda figured. And, like, most days I can fill a silence like nobody’s business, but right now everything hurts and I kinda just want to zone out. That cool?”
Bucky smiles to himself. “Sounds like a plan.”
And then it’s quiet again, aside from Barton humming off-key under his breath between gulps of coffee. His posture is totally relaxed — totally trusting — and isn’t that strange?
“All set,” Bucky says softly. “Let me see the elbow?”
“Nah, it’s nothing, I’m fine.” He turns in his seat, and Bucky scoots his own stool back, out of his space. “Wouldn’t mind another cup of coffee before I go, though. Hey, where the fuck are we, by the way?”
“Go,” Bucky echoes flatly.
“I live in Bed Stuy. That’s not far, right?”
“Like hell I’m lettin’ you wander off right now. You forget about the head injury, pal?”
“Oh, please, it’s just a concussion,” Barton says breezily. “I’ve had loads of ‘em.”
“It’s not like you build up a tolerance or something. Shit, you’re worse than Stevie used to be.”
“If nothing’s killed me yet, I really doubt this will. I’m basically a cockroach. Seriously, though, coffee?” Barton asks. He holds up his empty mug, eyes wide, in full Oliver Twist mode.
He has really nice eyes. Bucky scowls and takes the mug.
“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles. “Put on a fuckin’ shirt and sit the fuck down, Barton. You get hurt swimming around in a dumpster, you clean that shit off, I don’t care how tough you think you are.”
“Okay then, Oscar,” Barton retorts, but he grabs the shirt and tugs it on obediently.
“Oscar?”
“As in, Oscar the Grouch?”
“You’re the one who was hangin’ out in a trash can,” Bucky points out. He passes the mug back, eyes narrowed in a glare that used to make men cry.
Barton doesn’t seem to notice it; he just smirks and says, “Sesame Street? Really? Of all the pop culture you could’ve picked up on?”
“HYDRA used to let me watch it when I was coming out of cryo,” Bucky deadpans. “Nothing like Elmo’s Song to get you in a murdering mood.”
Barton chokes on his coffee and doubles over with laughter, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders shake silently.
Bucky reaches over and thumps him on the back a few times, and then he crosses his arms, waiting for him to recover. It takes a minute before Barton straightens up, still red-faced and wheezing, which makes Bucky feel inordinately pleased with himself.
“Clean your fuckin’ elbow before your fuckin’ arm falls off,” he orders, and as Barton takes another sip of coffee, he adds, “I know I make this look good, but I don’t think you could pull it off.”
Barton spits coffee all over the counter, his borrowed t-shirt, and himself.
“You’re a goddamn car crash,” Bucky informs him. He holds out a roll of paper towels.
“In that you can’t look away?” Barton asks cheerfully, wiping himself down.
His cheeks are flushed, and his bright eyes are crinkled at the corners with the way he’s grinning, sunny and lopsided and genuine, and Bucky —
Yeah, Bucky can’t look away.
Fuck.
we belong awake
swinging from the fire escape