Chapter Text
Fifteen years. It’d been nearly fifteen years since Clint Barton had laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. He didn’t look great, which was probably the most jarring thing about it. Bucky had always been meticulous about looking good. Even that last time he’d seen him in the hospital, underneath the bruises, underneath the machines and gauze, the Barnes family and Steve had made sure Bucky was well groomed.
The man in front of him was anything but. His cheeks were a big sunken, the bags under his eyes betraying just how long it had probably been since he’d slept well. There was a definite need for a hair cut, and maybe a good hair treatment. It looked greasy, a limp, framing his face almost like prison bars.
Of course, the most jarring difference was the limp way his left sleeve hung, pinned to the side of his shirt. Clint had known, of course. But he hadn’t really thought about it in so long, that reality of it felt like a knife in his chest.
Silence stretched between them for an eternity. Clint was standing behind the bar, while Bucky sat, staring at him. Thankfully, while it wasn’t exactly the busiest at two p.m. on a Wednesday, there was still enough to keep himself busy. The blond had never really done well in silence, never managed to handle it like he was supposed to, so inevitably his traitorous mouth opened up and spilled out the words.
“You look good, Buck.”
The silence between them seemed to crystalize for a moment. Preserving the incredible awkwardness for all of eternity. Hell, it seemed like it was an eternity, dooming him to wish more than anything he could take those words back.
Except a breath later, the quiet shattered, broken by an almost painful sounding laugh that nearly ripped out of Bucky. Like he’d forgotten how to do it, how to make the sound, and the ghost of a smile remained on his lips after it passed.
“You always were a smooth talker, Barton.” His voice sounded rough, shaky. As though he didn’t know what words to try and say, where to start. Fifteen years was a long time. It was impossible to even know where to start.
“How about a drink?” seemed like a safe bet, though it came at the same time Bucky said
“I missed you.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Clint could pretend all he wanted that he’d moved on. But it would never be true. Some nights he still woke up screaming, thinking he was standing on the side of the road in the storm. Tonight’s definitely going to be one of those nights.
Instead of responding, because he’s nothing if not a coward, Clint merely grabs a bottle of beer, flicking the cap behind his back to plink into the trash can. There was no hesitation, he knew it had gone exactly where he needed it to go. The act seemed to bring a small smile to Bucky’s lips. He lifted the beer to his mouth to take a swallow. There was a small grimace when Clint moved away from him, moving back down the bar.
They fall back into a silence then. Neither one seems to know what to say, but at least Bucky’s a ‘customer’ like any other, so it’s easier for Clint to slot him away in his brain, while he does the work they’ll need for later in the night. Bucky just signals for another beer with a slight wave of the bottle, and it’s easy. It’s quiet, comfortable, and Clint could pretend he was just some guy.
Until it was nearly four, and Bucky was on his fourth beer. He finally seemed to be feeling the effects, and that loosened his lips enough.
“You really aren’t going to talk to me?”
“I gotta work. Don’t know what you were expecting.” At the comment, Bucky takes a long, slow look around the bar. It’s empty. Completely. It’s just the two of them.
“Yeah. Lotta work to be done." At least the Barnes sarcasm was still in full effect. "It’s been like, what, fourteen years?”
“Fifteen years, seven months, and eleven days. Give or take.” He remembered. Of course he remembered exactly how long it'd been. It wasn’t a happy memory, of course. How many people had happy memories at that age in the hospital?
“So talk to me, dammit. I came all the way out here to see you, I… I looked for you, when I woke up, Clint.”
He wished he’d just stayed Barton. The way his name sounded from Bucky’s lips was too sweet, too sharp. It still managed to send shivers down his spine after all those years. Memories of it whispered between desperate kisses, it was too perfect.
“...Don’t know why you looked.” He turned back to look towards him, though he found that he couldn’t make himself look at the brunette’s face. He was staring down towards the floor. “You weren’t gonna find anything worth the trouble. It’s still just me.”
“Damnit, What happened to you? Clint, you were… You weren’t there.” Bucky sounded so heart broken.
“Bucky, Can we… Can we not do this right now? More people are actually going to start showing up here sooner or later, and I just… I gotta focus.”
“Clint. Please.” How could he put so much hurt into that one word? How much pain had he been carrying around for that long? It’s more than enough to break an already broken heart.
“...I’ll text someone to come in and cover for me. If only so you’ll stop drinking, Barnes. You can’t hold your beer for shit.” He’d shake his head, pulling his old, beat up phone out of his pocket. He’d be paying for this favor, he knew it, but he sent off a text quickly with one hand, tucking it back away.
“Yeah. Not ‘spposed to drink on my meds. But it seemed kinda rude to sit in a bar and only drink water.”
“What? Barnes, Futzing hell, where are you and Steve saying?” Because he didn’t really think Bucky would be here alone. They’d never really done anything alone, back then.Until he had been the one to be alone.
But Bucky just stared down at the beer in his hand. “Stevie’s probably still in Indiana, flippin’ his shit cuz he doesn’t know where I’m at. Kinda didn’t tell him what I was planning, Clint. When it comes to you, He... He just...”
He wouldn’t have let Bucky come, if he’d known where he was headed. There was no way in hell Steve Rogers would entertain the idea of letting Clint back into their lives. He knew the truth. Barton men were no good.
“I know, Buck.” He sighed when his phone vibrated. A quick check of it at least removed some of the stress that he felt crushing down on his back.
“Okay, I got permission to bail once my relief gets here, and get you back to your hotel. Which one are you staying at?”
Another burgeoning silence developed, as Bucky started to pick at the label of the beer in his hand. This time it was his turn to not look up, afraid to meet Clint’s eyes.
“...You didn’t get a hotel yet, didja? Look, fine, we’ll go back to my place, It’s just a few blocks. I gotta feed my dog anyway.”
“You got a dog?” Bucky looked up, another ghost of a smile gracing his lips, though it was dispelled as he bit at his lower lip nervously. “You always did love ‘em…”
“Yeah, well… You’ll get to meet ‘im. His name’s Lucky. I just gotta wait for my relief to get in, and I’ll get you somewhere you can sleep this off. We can call Steve and get you home”
“And we can talk. Please, Clint. I didn’t ride a bus all the way out here, and wander through fucking Brooklyn, just to not talk.”
“Bucky, I…” Whatever he was going to say died on his lips when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He hated when she did that “Thanks for coming in Nat. I have… It’s…” He looked over his shoulder towards the red head, whose expression looked placid and calm. To just about anyone other than Clint, at least.
“Oh, Clint, is… Is she your…” Whatever drunken confidence had loosened his lips seemed to finally fall away, crumbling under the realization.
“Nat, this is Bucky.” It was all he could finally bring himself to say, the declaration enough to pull her eyes back to Clint’s. They’d always had a certain way of understanding each other, a silent conversation passing between them for the long moments after the declaration.
“Oh, sólnyshka.” It was all she said before she reached up, grabbing his neck with one hand and tugging him down, to kiss his forehead. He allowed it, knowing full well he was risking a smear of lipstick. It was just that he couldn’t seem to care. It wouldn’t be the first time.
She casually moved into his place, as he untied his small apron, walking towards the back. When Bucky moved to stand up, she spoke up “You’re going to sit there, and wait for him. I think you owe him a minute to compose himself.” She didn’t actually need to cut any more lemons for the shift, but she found that men listened to her better when they saw her with a knife in her hands.
Bucky swallowed so loud he was pretty sure everyone could hear it. It was torture of it’s own kind, though when Natasha placed a glass of water in front of him, he took it and drank it down, something to do with his hand, to alleviate the nerves that he felt tightening the longer she silently judged him. He felt almost nervous to look away from her, like the second he did, she’d change her mind on tolerating him.
“Okay, Bucky, C’mon. Let’s get you somewhere to call Steve.” Clint had come back around, dressed more for comfort than anything now. A baggy purple sweat shirt, a beanie pulled down far enough to cover his ears and the hearing aids he’d always been awkward about as a kid. Some part of Bucky was almost sad that he couldn’t see how tight Clint’s jeans might fit, but the sweat shirt was long enough to deprive that view.
It also probably wasn’t the time. He shifted off the stool, wobbling just a little bit when he leaned over to grab the backpack he’d kept at his feet. Clint’s steadying hand on his shoulder made him pause. His left shoulder. There was a moment of tension, before Clint sighed.
“Sorry, You just looked like you needed….”
“...Steve still hates to look at it.” Bucky didn’t know what else to say, and that seemed to be the wrong thing. They left the bar silently, stepping back out into the noise of the city. He hated it, even as he took comfort in it. The sheer amount of noise grated into his nerves, but there was something about the complete expanse of it.
Back home in Indiana, it was almost always quiet unless he went downtown. It was safe, but it was isolating in its safety. He’d always be James Buchanan Barnes, who had such a tragic accident. The Barnes family, they were so brave. They handled it so well. Even after so many years, it was a story that was told and passed around. He could hide out with Steve as much as he wanted, but the whole town knew the story because nothing interesting ever happened.
But the sound surrounding him now was the sound of hundreds, thousands of other stories. People who were living their own lives filled with drama, and secrets, and without a single care about one guy with one arm, or the tall blond that was walking down the street with him. Clint knew where they were going, so Bucky could just let himself watch him.
Clint was beautiful. Maybe he didn’t look the same as he did when they were teenagers, but that was to be expected, wasn’t it? But he still had the same blue eyes. The freckles on his cheeks were maybe a little more prominent, and there were a few wrinkles here and there that told the story of a life lived. But his smile still warmed parts of Bucky he didn’t even know were cold. He’d fallen into step on Bucky’s left, putting himself in the way of any vehicles.
It had to be jarring to see Bucky in his current state, but here he was. Taking care of him just like they hadn’t missed a beat. It was hard to see anything else in the world, when Clint Barton was right in front of him.
So yeah, Clint was beautiful. This moment was even better than seeing him in his dreams.
Though judging by the pink that crept up Clint's cheeks, almost to his ears, Bucky might’ve said that part out loud. At least Clint wasn’t about to point it out and embarrass him. No other words really passed, until Clint slowed to a stop in front of a building.
“This is my place, c’mon up. Lucky’s usually good with strangers, just uh… He’s going to want to give you kisses.” He said with a little bit of a laugh, the nervous edge to it apparent. As they shuffled up the steps to the door, a young woman with pink hair tugged it open and breezed out.
“Oh, hey Clint. Simone wanted me to let you know her shower’s doing the thing where it sounds like a dying whale again.”
Clint sighed for a moment, snagging the door and holding it open “Awesome, thanks Aimee. I’m home early today to help out my friend, but maybe I can get in there tonight or tomorrow and fix it.”
She nodded, taking the stairs two at a time before she paused, turning to look back up at them. Or more specifically, look towards Bucky. “Sure thing. Everything good?”
“Yup.” He hit the ‘p’ a little harder than he meant in an effort to sell nonchalance, but she just raised an eyebrow and gently shook her head. It wasn’t like he couldn’t take care of himself, so she just gave another wave, before she took off down the street.
Bucky managed to hold his questions off at least until they’d entered the building “You a handyman or something too?”
Clint just shook his head a little bit, breezing past the elevator to take the stairs. “Nah. If I was a handyman, the shower probably would’ve stayed fixed the first time.”
“So…?”
“So I haven’t gotten around to hiring a super, so I’m just doing the best I can.” There was something about the topic that got Clint’s hackles up, his shoulders lifting as he stopped in front of his apartment, pulling his keys out to unlock it. Bucky could already hear the scratching of claws on the other side of the door.
“Wait, Hiring…?” Bucky seemed confused for a moment, and Clint sighed.
“I own the building, it’s a long story.” And when the door opened, there was the dog Bucky had been warned about. A golden mixed breed, currently holding what looked like a stuffed pizza slice in its mouth. The dog’s entire body was wiggling around, full of barely contained joy. “Hey Lucky, boy. No jumping, okay? I brought a friend.”
The look on Clint’s face as he spoke to the dog was devastating to Bucky. He remembered that sweet affection in his voice, when it had been directed towards him. He wasn’t able to school his expression back to something normal before Clint looked back towards him.
“Aw, Tears, no, C’mon Bucky, he’s friendly. I just trained him to bring his stuffed toys to the door instead of barking.” Clint just gently guided Bucky inside.
“It's not that, It's just, It's. Please, Can we… Can we just talk, Clint? We don’t have to talk about… I just need you to talk to me.” He was struggling for the words, scrambling for something. Clint’s hand on his back was just about the only thing keeping him steady and moving, guided straight over to the couch.
It was a beat old thing, worn and comfortable. When Bucky finally sat down on it, he immediately found himself staring down at the floor. Or at least that had been his intention, until Lucky had shuffled in the way, staring up at him with one eye. He looked like he was perpetually winking, and as he lifted his head to gently smack his stuffed toy into Bucky’s lap. It broke his train of thought, and he’d reach up to gently accept it, ignoring the feeling of slobber on the fabric. A light squeeze to it revealed it possessed a squeaker in it.
And thankfully, Lucky just sat down, and gave a doggy grin, rather than barking loudly. The dog might be kind of stupid, but Clint was still struck by how smart he seemed to be. At least, when it suited him.
“You should call Steve, Buck. You know he’s worried.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll call him tomorrow, just… will you sit down with me? You can tell me how you met your… girlfriend?” The word escaped his throat like broken glass. But he didn’t know what else to think.
“Girl… You mean Natasha?” That seemed to be enough of a distraction that he stopped talking about Steve for the moment, shaking his head as he laughed. “God. Natasha’s not my girlfriend. She’s too good for me, and way too scary. No, she’s just…”
Clint finally did what Bucky hoped for. He sat down, and sighed. “...She’s my Steve. When the chips are down, she’s got my back.” The way he’d thought Steve had. The way he’d hoped Bucky would’ve. But now here they were. “I’m not… I can’t, Buck. I can’t talk about before, okay? I won’t.” It wasn’t that the pain was fresh. It was just a matter of the depths of the wounds.
“I… I understand. Can I know about what you’re doing now?”
So Clint settles in. He can talk about now. The bar is a recent venture, he’s one of the financial backers and one of the bartenders, but technically the whole place is Natasha’s dream. They work together, because they always have. That leads into some of the explanation about the building.
He’d won it in a poker game from some assholes who had gone to extreme lengths to get it back. Natasha had backed him up, and those assholes… mostly left the building alone now. But it slowly took a turn, the conversation drifting back in time.
Bucky listened intently, nodding his head as he let Clint talk. It was soothing, comforting to be listening to him again. The blond always felt like he was a rambler, and for now it was exactly what he needed to hear. They barely even paused when Clint ordered a pizza.
Lucky’s story made Bucky sad, but it made him understand why Clint doted on the dog, why he shared pizza with him as casually as can be. And for everything that he’d endured, Lucky was full of love. It had to be Clint’s influence. He made it so easy to be joyful, to be light. Bucky didn’t even flinch when the dog clambered up onto the couch with him, half draped over his lap so that Clint could reach across Bucky and stroke the dog’s ears.
How they wound up in New York, Clint had been a little hesitant to dive into at first. But as Bucky slumped into him a little more, he opened up. They’d been mixed up with some rough things, and Natasha knew someone who could get them what they needed.
Money. Even with the sanitized version, that much was obvious. He danced around it as best as he could, but Bucky could tell, whatever it was, it wasn’t the kind of thing he could rely on the cops for.
It was tough to know when exactly it happened, but it didn’t take all that long before the brunette had fully laid down on his couch, his head resting on Clint’s thigh. Lucky had decided that for as long as the new person occupied his spot on the couch, that he could be a snuggly blanket. Or maybe he'd decided that just because Bucky was in the way, that wasn't going to stop him from getting on the couch like he liked to. Either way, Bucky's eyes had drifted closed, his fingers still loosely tangled in Lucky's fur. Good. Clint didn’t have many more stories he could share that wouldn’t touch too much on where he’d been. And why he’d left.
Asleep, Bucky looked a lot more like the guy Clint remembered. It was probably a bad idea to let his fingers slowly run through Bucky’s hair, brushing the strands out of his hair and just watching him as he murmured sleepily.
If he was asked later, Clint might admit that he’s not proud of what he did next. But he had to do what was right. Hooking Bucky’s bag with his foot, he tugged it over, leaning carefully over.
His phone was easily located, along with the mess of medication, and a change of clothes.
Clint did his best to pretend he didn’t see the old photo album photo album. No, his focus was on turning on the phone… There were dozens of text messages, and even more missed calls.
Unlocking it was a sharp reminder. 0618. His birthday. Another thing to file away and stoically not think about for the rest of his natural life.
There were only two contacts in the entire phone. No games, no apps. Just Stevie, and someone named Sam. As tempting as it was to call someone new, he’d rather deal with the fallout now.
Better the devil he knew, right?
“Buck! Buck, where are you? Are you hurt? Buck please, tell me where you are, I’ll come get you.” The rambling softened as Clint sat there for a moment, taking a deep breath before he spoke.
“Hey Rogers…”
“Who the… Barton? Barton?! Why do you have his phone? What did you do to him this time?”
“I didn’t… Steve, he just…”
“Of all the asshole moves. What, you came to town and picked him up again? Didn’t destroy him enough the first time, did you? Or is this call just to gloat? Bucky spent years putting himself back together after you nearly got him killed. Tell me where you are, I’m coming to get him, and then you better get out of town.”
“It’s not like that, If you’ll just let me explain.”
“Tell me where he is.” Ugh, Clint always hated that voice. The way that Steve, as the world’s scrawniest teenager, could really put some weight behind his words while removing any of the emotion.
“He’s in Brooklyn, asshole.”
The silence stretched on for so long, Clint started to wonder if the call had disconnected.
“How did he get to Brooklyn?” No hiding the emotion there. Confusion, hurt. A small, petty part of Clint was glad.
“Don’t know. Look, he’s asleep right now. I just… I figured I should call you, let you know he’s okay.”
“Barton, What were you thinking…”
It was the start of a lecture, and Clint knew it. He hadn’t heard a proper Rogers ‘talking to’ since that night. Whatever the current one was, he lost it in the roar of memory in his ears.
They wouldn’t tell him anything. Clint knew that made sense, as far as they knew, there was no reason to. But he was the reason Bucky had been in the car. He was the reason they were driving in the rain storm. The actual accident was a blank spot in his memory, and always seemed to be.
Sometimes he thought Bucky shoved him out of the car. Sometimes he remembers being in it when it went off the road. The ones he hates the most are when he remembers climbing out, leaving Bucky sobbing and begging him not to leave him.
But no, the next solid memory he has, he’s screaming on the side of the road, his phone clutched in his hand, begging them to come help.
Bucky went into surgery. Parents were contacted. The Barnes’s contacted the Rogers’s.
Nobody answered at the Barton home, but they had left a message.
It was good that Bucky’s family was there, though. He deserved to have people there, and some small part of Clint’s teenage brain had assumed that would mean someone would come into the quiet, empty room he was stuck in, and they’d tell him what they knew.
But as he caught glimpses of Bucky’s sisters, or his mother, nobody even hesitated by his door. Not until Steve came in. Clint nearly burst into tears at the sight of his friend.
The tone of voice when Steve finally spoke practically froze those tears to ice before they had a chance to.
“Barton, What were you thinking?! Bucky could’ve died. And because, what, you wanted to steal your dad’s car and go for a joyride?”
Clint’s eyes were wide, and his hands went up, tugging at the sleeves of the hospital gown to cover the bruises. His chart said they’d all been a result of the accident.
The nurses pointedly didn’t record that some of them were old, already yellowed and healing. Nobody made a fuss of the handprint shaped bruise on his right arm. Must’ve been when someone pulled him out of the wreck.
But Steve knew didn’t he? Sure, he’d never talked to him about it, and Steve had never seen the actual acts of Harold Barton. That was something that only Bucky had the misfortune of experiencing. But Clint couldn’t imagine that Steve didn’t know. “Steve, It wasn’t like that. Please, you have to believe me.”
“I don’t have to do anything, Clint. My best friend is up in the ICU now, and it’s your fault. Because you’re too stupid, and reckless. Did he beg for you to come back and help him? Does he know what an asshole you really are, that you just left him like that?”
The words dug into Clint’s soul, and his fingers were digging into his arms to try and distract himself from the new kind of pain. “Steve, please…”
“They’re going to pick up your dad. And let him know you stole his car. Then you can go home, and stay away from Bucky. They had to take his arm, Clint. Because of you. Do you really think he’s ever going to want to see you again? My dad was right, Ma never should’ve made me hang out with you. Bartons are all the same.” The words didn't sound quite right, like he was parroting someone else. Yet Steve seemed to know he’d gotten his point across, turning around and storming out of the room to leave Clint alone with his thoughts.
Clint didn’t understand. They’d been friends too, right? Or had it just been something Mrs. Rogers had forced? She’d always been so kind to Clint. Helped him with his cuts, without asking about them because she knew he wouldn't say anything. In elementary school, she’d even packed a lunch for him when he walked with Steve and Bucky to school. Maybe she had just hadn't wanted to deal with Steve sharing his lunch?
But now his dad was on the way to the hospital. And that couldn’t happen. Clint stripped out of the hospital gown in an instant. It wasn't hard to grab the bag where they'd put his wet, dirty clothes, and pull them back on in a rush. Quiet as can be, he'd move to the door. It wasn’t locked, and some part of him found that surprising.
Monsters were supposed to be locked up.
Bucky was in the ICU. He had to see him one last time. Twelve years as a punching bag had given Clint a few different things. The first was his ability to take a punch. The second was the hearing loss. Neither one were spectacularly helpful in this instance.
But he’d also learned how to make himself small, invisible. Clint might’ve been an awkwardly built fourteen year old, but it was almost too easy to make sure people wouldn’t notice him as he moved.
Bucky’s room was thankfully in the ICU, which meant no visitors at that hour. Clint slipped in between the passes of the nurses, and his breath caught. Bucky hooked up to all the machines. Barely looking alive, with tubes and wires. The hospital sheet to his left was laying flat, and the glimpse of the bandages was all Clint could stand.
He backed out into the hall without checking, which is when he heard the confused “Clint?” called into the hall. His head snapped to the side, blue eyes wide. Becca, Bucky’s sister, was standing at the end of the hall, looking completely confused, and holding a cup of hot cocoa.
“Clint… I was looking for you” She held one hand out as she started walking towards him, but it was too much. He’d been here too long, and she was going to take him back to his dad.
No way the old man didn’t kill him this time. That was the only thought he had as he spun on his heels, shoes squeaking on the tile as he abandoned any concerns of stealth, hauling ass towards the far stair well. Nobody knew exactly what to make of the purple blur in the hall.
The only other lesson Harold Barton had taught him was if he was going to run, give it his all. No way anyone would catch him. Just like none of them would have expected him to run all the way to the ground floor, and back out into the storm.
Terror and hurt blended together, and the world became nothing but the sound of his shoes hitting the ground, and the rain hitting his skin. He didn’t know how long he’d run, or even what direction. Following the roads only half the time, he didn’t stop until he found himself leaning against a telephone pole to catch his breath. Plastered against the wood, soaked through the rain, was an old flyer.
Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders
In Town For One Night Only!
When he caught his breath, he’d finally had a destination in mind. Every kid dreamed about running away to join the circus, right…?
“Are you even listening to me, Barton?” Steve snapped, pulling him out of the foggy memory. He looked down at Bucky. Asleep again, but this time peaceful. Safe.
“...Go fuck yourself, Rogers. Bucky’s safe with me. He wants to be here for a reason, maybe ask yourself why that is before you get all self righteous on me.” Before he hung up, feeling a weight off his chest as he dropped the already vibrating phone back into the bag. Reaching up to gently take out his hearing aids and set them on the coffee table made it even easier to ignore.
Life hadn’t been kind to Clint Barton. But maybe this time he could just have something nice, before he sent Bucky back home to Steve. It must’ve been better back there, without him around to ruin everything.
For now though, he could let himself drift, daydreaming that this could be forever. They could be safe together. Broken, flawed. But together. Like he’d dreamed of since the day he realized he’d been in love with Bucky.
The tear that escaped, splashing onto Bucky’s forehead was thankfully not enough to wake him, and it was Clint’s warning to tilt his head back. He couldn't literally cry onto Bucky like that, he didn't have it in him to have any more conversation today. Tomorrow was Future Clint’s problem.
Present Clint was too overwhelmed to care about that guy. Besides, what had he ever done for him?