Clint’s head hits the pavement with the kind of reverberating thud that tells him he’s going to have a wicked headache for the next few days. His vision hasn’t started swimming yet so he takes comfort in that, even as he tries to lift himself off the ground.
The boot that lands on his neck makes it pretty hard to get up, and Clint chokes a little. At least it's a distraction from the smell of piss and puke.
“Not here for you,” a heavily modulated voice says, “so stay the fuck down.”
The boot releases, and Clint coughs a little. “S’okay, wasn’t here for this anyway.” He lifts the two boxes of pizza from his chest, wondering how bad the damage is.
Above him, the guy in the red helmet shifts his head like he’d be squinting if Clint could see his face.
“Left,” Clint suddenly says.
The guy moves quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid a solid gut punch that slings him into a dumpster. Clint winces on his behalf, and then has to shimmy to the right in order to avoid his own face full of fists. The pizza boxes stay secure on his chest, at least. He continues to butt-scootch away from the general fight, sitting up at the first chance and looking for an exit.
It’s a narrow alley though, cluttered with dumpsters and debris and a broken down car, and Clint’s pulse is throbbing behind his eyes.
Honestly, he’d be more worried if the guy in the helmet wasn’t making quick work of the muggers. He’s currently more concerned about the shitty, greasy pizza that’s steadily growing colder in his lap.
By the time Helmet has taken care of it all, Clint’s head has mostly stopped swimming and he’s able to stand on his feet without feeling like a newborn fawn or something else equally as ridiculous and pathetic. He’s even mostly sure that the pizza is still intact.
Which, of course, is why Helmet chooses that moment to take the boxes from him.
“Hey!” Clint snaps.
Helmet blocks Clint’s swipe easily, and then twists his arm hard enough that Clint goes down with a groan.
Helmet opens the first box and Clint can see the pepperoni pizza, looking damn near perfect. Helmet opens the next, and Clint can’t see his face but something in the way he stands tells Clint he’s excited.
Helmet makes quick work of picking up half the pineapple and olive pizza and swapping it with half the pepperoni pizza.
He dumps the second box on Clint’s back.
”Bucky is going to be so pissed,” Clint tells him. “Pineapple is his pizza.”
Helmet kicks him in the head, hard enough to knock him out, but not before he hears a modulated voice saying, “Bucky has good taste.”
—
Bucky slaps Clint’s wrist, hard, with his metal hand, like an absolute bitch. Clint’s eyes water at the sting.
“Ow, Bucky,” Clint whines, pulling his hand away from his head. “What was that for?”
Bucky slaps him again, then dabs peroxide into the split along his temple. “It was a simple task, Clint. You go, you pick up pizza, you come back. How the hell do you end up passed out in an alley missing my pizza?”
”Half,” Clint corrects. “He only took half your pizza. He also took half of mine.”
Bucky leans back, as much as he can in the tiny bathroom. He studies Clint’s face under the yellow light. Clint’s face is a watercolor of hideous blues and yellows, and he’s got a clear boot-mark on his cheek, and a less distinct matching print on his neck. He’s also got several scrapes and a nasty gash along his temple.
And he looks tired. Exhausted and worn in a way that worries Bucky. They’ve been here too long. Been stuck in this shithole of a city, living in this shithole motel, eating shithole pizza.
Actually, “Gotham has good pizza Clint. How do you lose good pizza?” He slaps gauze over the worst of scrapes and steps out of Clint’s space. Clint grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him back in, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s.
“I’m fine, Bucky,” he says gently. Clint squeezes Bucky’s shoulders, trying to quell the shaking. “The alley is normally a safe shortcut but I wasn’t ready for a group of muggers.”
”Yeah,” Bucky presses his thumb to the boot-shaped bruise that is still growing in shades. “Muggers don’t wear tactical boots, usually.”
”One of them did,” Clint says helplessly. “I don’t know if it’s some kind of territory dispute or what, but he seemed way more invested in beating the shit out of them than he did me.”
Bucky frowns. He’s stopped shaking so Clint lets him go. “And the pizza?”
Clint wrinkles his nose. “Entirely your fault. He got excited about the pineapple. Like a freak.”
Bucky thumps him in the shoulder and Clint can’t stop the hiss that escapes. Bucky’s eyes narrow and he reaches for Clint’s collar and rips it, easily. “For fucks sake, Clint! This is why I strip search you post missions.”
Clint lets out a wounded noise. “Bucky, I’m hungry.”
Bucky continues removing the clothing and slapping Clint and tutting. By the end, Clint thinks he’s got more bandages than wounds, but at least Bucky looks less insane.
“Let’s just order delivery, next time,” Clint grumbles.
—
Clint is slouched in the booth of a small diner, pancakes piled high on his plate when the lights go out. He calmly pours syrup over his stack and waits. Neon lights reflect in the syrup, and Clint almost thinks it looks pretty or like, mystical or some shit.
He’s taking his second bite when the window one booth over shatters and Bucky barrels through it, full Winter Soldier gear on with some freak in a half-mask trapped in his arms. Clint lifts his plate and twists, doing his best to keep shards from contaminating his stack and he looks at Bucky who, despite the muzzle, is giving him the biggest bitch face on the planet. Clint shrugs and takes another bite. “You put me on ice, buddy,” he smirks.
Bucky doesn’t say a word as he lifts his victim and then slams him down onto the metal table, which promptly snaps in half. “So you decide that resting and recon means ‘Get pancakes without’-“ he’s cut off by a groaning beneath him. The guy below him tries to twist and Bucky raises a fist to knock him out when something solid slams into him. Clint wonders if he’s intentionally timing his punches to match the too-fast rhythm of whatever synth music bleeds out of the old speakers above them. Bucky has just about finished with the creep-of-the-week when a new shape flips over Bucky to snatch the half-masked attacker.
Clint sits up a little straighter, hand sliding towards the knife still on the napkin. As he picks it up though, Bucky’s new attacker flings something in his direction and Clint has to twist away from the projectile. He has half a second to look at the strangely shaped projectile before smoke pours out, blinding him. Clint ducks under the table, begins to army crawl away from the vapor cloud.
He can hear Bucky’s pained grunts, and the occasional modulated grunt of his attacker.
”Helmet?” Clint asks.
”Focus,” Bucky snarls from somewhere to his left.
Clint mentally shakes himself. He squints, tracking the shadows as best he can in the dark and smoke. Opportunity presents itself when Bucky slings the new guy down right in front of him, and Clint slams the butter knife into the calf spasming before him.
Helmet jerks away, focus shifting from Bucky to Clint and Bucky gets a chance to slam his metal hand into that stupid helmet.
“Ow,” Clint says for the guy as he hears the head inside the helmet make contact.
Bucky lands a few more hits, and then he’s grabbing Clint and hauling him up and out of there.
“What happened to the mob?” Clint asks. “You were supposed to be scouting a mob meeting.”
Bucky drags him through the window and sets him down with an annoyed shrug. “I was. And then I was about to interrogate a few of them when your back alley bitch interrupted.”
Clint wrinkles his face, but before he can respond there’s a shadow moving in the shadows of the diner. “We should-“
Bucky’s already taken off, and Clint sighs, following him. “Those pancakes were really good,” he tells no one in particular.
—
Jason is pissed. He’s not really sure who these two idiots are, mucking around in his territory. He can’t figure out what they want or why they’re here. He also can’t figure out if the blond one is as incompetent as he seems.
He pulls the needle through his calf, a little more aggressively than he intended and the thread rips. “Fuck it!” He snarls.
He pours too much rubbing alcohol over the wound and then slaps some gauze and tape over it. He doesn’t pray, exactly, but the Lazarus Pit healing should be enough to keep him from bleeding out.
“I’m telling you, Dick, something’s up,” he grouses into the phone. “There are two new players in Gotham and one of them is definitely enhanced. Not sure on the other, because he went down easy enough in the alley, but he’s at least trained, if nothing else. Bruce really has nothing on new masks?”
There’s a lot of shuffling noise over the phone, and what sounds suspiciously like the buzz of the escrima sticks, and then Dick pants out, “I told you, I asked after you punched out your boyfriend and stole his pizza. If they’re here, they’re not connected to anyone he knows.”
”And you?” Jason asks bitterly. He’s not expecting anything, but then Dick goes silent. Like, Jason has to check his phone to see if it died, silent.
“Send me what you have on them. I got a lead I’ll follow,” Dick finally concedes.
“Ok,” Jason agrees. He hangs up without further conversation and begins to clean blood from the tub and floor. He’s tired.
He is bone deep tired, and all he really wants to do is take a shower and sleep. But the rays of light peeking through his blinds mean he can really only do one of those things. He has, after all, a meeting to attend.
—
“Red Hood.”
Clint nods, as unimpressed as Bucky. “Not a Nazi though, it seems. Not even Nazi adjacent.” He shifts in the uncomfortable armchair, feet kicked up on the ratty duvet of the motel bed. He scratches his belly over his t-shirt, debating leftover noodles or leftover rice.
Bucky frowns at him, eyebrows going pinched in the middle. He’s cross-legged on the second bed, eggroll hanging out of his mouth.
Clint shrugs, “Red Hood. Red Skull. I thought it was funny.” He grabs the rice, picking out the peas to throw at Bucky when he’s not looking.
Bucky sucks his lips in like he’s got a mouth full of rotten lemons. He swallows the last of the egg roll, then asks “But what is he?”
”Dunno,” Clint admits. “Sometimes he seems like he’s on Batman’s side and other times he seems to wanna kill the Bat.”
Bucky snorts. He leans back on his bed, hands stretched across his stomach, feet flat on the floor. It looks borderline uncomfortable but Clint has long since stopped trying to get him to posture like a human. Clint flicks a pea and manages to hit Bucky between the eyebrows.
Bucky sits up, core muscles tightening under his shirt, and glares. “Can you focus? We’ve been beaten by this guy twice now.”
Clint frowns. “I’d say the second one was a tie.”
Bucky stares at him, and then he gets that same sharp look in his eye that Steve does, sometimes. The one that means he’s honing in on something Clint doesn’t want to deal with. “Hey, by the way, what happened back there?”
Clint frowns. “He had toys.”
Bucky chokes on air. Clint can’t figure out if it’s a choked off laugh or what, but he waves it off. “No, that smoke? He threw a,” Clint hesitates. “Look, you said he works with the Bat, sometimes, right? It looked like a batarang, sort of. In a vague estimation of the shape. I thought he was throwing it at me, but I think it was some kinda re-engineered smoke canister. I don’t think he was tryna’ hurt me. But he wanted me out of the way.”
Bucky rubs a hand over his jaw, where the bruises were a few hours ago. “Well ain’t that bully for you,” he grumbles. “Cause it sure as hell didn’t feel friendly when he tackled me.”
Clint shakes his head again. “No, I just,” he pauses. “Neither of us knew he was there. You didn’t know he was there. He coulda snapped your neck easily. Coulda really done something to hurt you, and we wouldn’t’ve been prepared for it.”
Bucky sits up a little straighter, hand rubbing over his chin again. “I,” he hesitates. “He pulled his punches. I’m not sayin’ he’d have beat me, but he practically let pummel him, at the end.”
”No,” Clint disagrees. “I stabbed him in the calf, that definitely confused him.”
Bucky shakes his head again. “Clint, he only looked like he was too startled. But I had my hands on him. He barely even flinched when you stabbed him but he stopped fighting back.”
Clint goes quiet, picking out small pieces of rice with the chopsticks just to prove he can. Bucky for his part, lays back down, staring at the strange stains on the ceiling.
“Okay,” Bucky asks in the empty air. “Okay, so how do we deal with Red Hood?”
”Easy,” Clint tells him. “We Acquire him.”
Bucky snorts. “What does that even mean? How are you going to ‘acquire’ a possibly friendly-ish Crime Lord?”
”Seduce him,” Clint answers.
Bucky glares at him.
Clint smiles. “Worked on you, didn’t it?”
Bucky points to the bed he’s in. Then he points to Clint’s, on the opposite side of the room.
Clint rolls his eyes. “Steve booked the room. You're lucky he trusts us enough to let us share a room, after Paris.”
Bucky grimaces. “You did remind him there was pollen involved in that debacle, right?”
Clint laughs. “Sure. Had nothing to do with the wine and the city of romance.”
Bucky shrugs, and then reaches his hands out. “Push the beds together, let’s give Steve a real reason to worry.”
—
Two weeks and three more RedHood meetings later, Clint has a plan.
The “plan,” (although, that’s a bit of a stretch of the word) mostly involves food and fists.
“And eventually family,” Clint slaps the sticky note back onto the wall. The three puke-green sticky notes contrast the shit brown wall nicely, if not dismally.
Bucky pulls it off again, frowning. “We aren’t,” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What makes you think any of this is even going to work? Clint, this plan is really stupid.” He chews his lip, staring at Clint’s “three steps” and wonders how the hell he ended up in this predicament.
“He likes food and he likes fighting,” Clint shrugs. “You like food, although you're less keen on fighting.” He plucks the sticky note from Bucky and puts it back on the wall, then throws himself across their pushed together beds. His shirt rides up, and Bucky frowns at the gouge sliding across his left hip. He needs to focus, though.
Bucky slumps into the arm chair, kicking his feet on the bed to nudge at Clint’s shoulder. “Everyone likes food, Clint. And liking fighting isn’t exactly a perk in this situation.”
Clint hums, and flips onto his side so he can grab Bucky’s ankle, curl his fingers over the sliver of skin between his sock and his joggers. Bucky lets him hold it for a moment, enjoying the warmth and pressure of his hand before nudging him again. “Talk to me, Barton. I still don’t read minds.”
Clint bites the inside of his lip, and Bucky can see the thoughts bouncing behind those corn-blue eyes. He waits, if only because there’s nothing else to do.
“He’s attacked us five times now, right?” Clint asks. He waves off Bucky’s correction before he can start. “The bowling alley doesn’t count. He didn’t mean to hit me with the knife. He didn’t even seem to realize I was there. But, aside from that, five times, all in the same few blocks. The first attack happened off Crime Alley, and then the next two were within feet of it.”
Bucky ponders the information, and then he stands up, careful not to kick Clint as he does so, and pulls out a map. He tacks it to the wall, over the sticky notes and draws circles over the attack locations, including the bowling alley despite Clint’s noise of protest. Clint isn’t wrong, exactly. It looks like everything takes place in a five mile radius, with Crime Alley in the center. “But it’s just not enough data, Clint, to form a proper theory. Besides, what does it mean?”
Clint rolls onto his back and throws an arm over his face. “So we find a way to test the hypothesis we have.”
Bucky frowns. “No. No, Clint, your back is still split open, and barely being held together with glue and tape.”
”Low stakes! We’ll find a purse snatcher and go from there,” Clint is already hauling himself up with a groan, and Bucky can see how stiff he moves. How much pain he’s swallowing down.
“A criminal acting alone, in Gotham, who isn’t an absolute maniac,” Bucky deadpans. “This is going to end so well.”
”Glad you’re on board!” Clint says, even if the glee is borderline hysterical. “C’mon, Soldier, gear up.”
Bucky really, really hates this plan. So much so that something is buzzing in the back of his brain, telling him he’s about to lose his whole mind and it’s gonna suck way more than anything Hydra ever did to him. But his choices are do this with Clint, or let Clint do this on his own while Bucky sits here waiting and worrying. “Don’t call me Soldier. I’ve told you don’t call me that unless it's absolutely necessary.”
—
Gotham fucking sucks. Objectively, Bucky thinks everyone knows this. But it especially sucks when he’s perched between piles of trash and piles of rat corpses, in a rundown building. Rain, the ever present, perpetual smog-water that never stops, comes down in buckets, limiting even Bucky’s enhanced sight.
He just needs one mugger. One lowlife he can interrupt, and then-
It still won’t prove Clint’s isane theory, but it’s all he has. He shifts, the chill settling in his bones and he can’t move enough to properly warm himself, but he tries, anyway. “Clint, I don’t think-“
Before he can call off the plan, he hears a scream. It’s a small scream, and he hesitates, but then there’s a second scream that is louder, more urgent. Bucky leaps from the window, barreling into the punk holding a knife on a kid.
A fucking kid, Bucky grimaces. Gotham fucking sucks. He lifts the guy by the shirt and then slams him down, just hard enough for his head to crack against the concrete. His head barely even bleeds.
Bucky waits. He hands the kid a few of the twenties he and Clint had started keeping on them for Gothamites, and watches him run off.
Movement a few buildings up catches Bucky’s eye and he steps back with a start. Red Hood watches the kid run off, and then he turns towards Bucky with a lazy salute. Bucky makes to step towards him, but there’s a sudden muzzle flash, followed by a dull pain in his chest.
Bucky looks down. Whatever projectile came out of that gun wasn’t enough to pierce his vest, or do anything more than startle him, knock the wind out of him. “What the hell?”
He fucking hates this game. Bucky is running before he even has a destination in mind, other than follow.
He can’t see exactly where Red Hood went, but if he listens closely, he can track the faint snick of a grappling hook. He’s headed vaguely in the direction of Crime Alley.
Bucky follows the sound until it stops, and he ends up in front of an old, rundown apartment building. It looks pretty much abandoned, which Bucky thinks is actually proof he’s in the right spot. “I hate Gotham,” Bucky says into the comm, in case Clint had forgotten in the last ten or so minutes.
“What’s going on, Bucky?” Clint’s voice is steady, serious, and that’s the only sign that Bucky gets about how terrified he is.
Bucky doesn’t answer. He pushes open the front door of the building, slowly, waiting for something to go off. When nothing does, he raises a pistol slowly and flicks on the light attached to it. Bucky does a few broad sweeps, but all he can see is more debris, trash, and the remnants of a squatter. It’s a nice bike. He might have to come back and liberate it, if it’s still here later.
The green laser sweeps slowly across the floor, intentional designs played out in order to draw Bucky’s attention and then it crawls up his torso to hover over his heart. He raises his hands slowly, after holstering his weapon; he’s seen Red Hood shoot enough times to know even if he gets a shot off, it won't stop the oncoming bullet. His best hope is to prevent any bullets at all. Not that Red Hood is a better shot than he is, or anything. Just, Bucky's speed enhancement is only so fast.
“You’re trespassing.”
Bucky frowns at the modulated voice, at the way it seems to echo around the room. “Neat trick. I’d offer to walk back out the front door, but I don’t trust you not to put that bullet in my back.”
”If I wanted to shoot you, I would have. I’m not mad you’re trespassing. Impressed, actually”
”So, what, we’re just two dudes having a friendly conversation? Gun there says differently, pal.” Bucky drops his hands a half inch but the green laser doesn’t move.
Red Hood steps forward, gun never wavering. ”Something like that,” he says. Red Hood moves until he’s got the barrel of his pistol pressed to Bucky’s chest. His stance is almost lazy, but Bucky knows better. He can see the careful posturing of his shoulders, the way his feet are firmly planted.
“Before you think about taking my gun, you should know there’s a kill switch in the helmet that’s voice activated. All I gotta do is say the word and about six different traps are gonna kill you.”
”And you?” Bucky demands.
Red Hood makes a noise, something that might be amused if it weren’t run through the modulator, “I’ll recover.”
Bucky debates his options. “Barton?”
There’s nothing but static in his ear. He’d wondered about that, the sudden silence when he entered. He’d hoped Clint was waiting to see how it played out.
“Where is your pretty partner? Was hoping to tango with him again.”
Bucky can’t stop himself from flinching forward, even as the barrel digs and pushes into his vest. “Stay away from him,” Bucky growls out unnecessarily. “Whatever the fuck you want, keep him out of it.”
Red Hood cocks his head to the side. He lifts the gun to Bucky’s chin, uses it to push his face to the side. “Wondered what it was between you two. You know he’s a bit of a flirt, right?”
Bucky smacks the barrel away from his face, but he doesn’t attack, still wary of the supposed six traps. Red Hood laughs and holsters the gun.
”Tell you want, hot stuff. I’ll make you a deal. You beat me, hand to hand, and I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”
Bucky ponders it for half a second before he swings his human fist into Red Hood’s gut. He figures he’s got three moves to shut this down. Red Hood seems genuinely stunned by Bucky’s move and he uses that split second to drive his knee into Red Hood’s side, dropping him.
Being enhanced has its perks, Bucky considers as he kicks Red Hood down and slams his metal fist into one of the fault lines of the mask. He hits it again, and a decent sized chunk of it breaks off.
Bucky wasn’t prepared for the face to be so young, or the single teal eye to be so full of rage.
Red Hood takes the opportunity to kick both of his feet into Bucky’s chest and launch him backwards. Bucky can’t see how he does it, but when he rights himself. Red Hood has found his feet again, and he’s got his fist raised.
“C’mon, give it to me,” Red Hood purrs. His voice is smooth, under the modulation, and full of something that makes Bucky blush.
“What are you qualifying as a win, here?” Bucky asks. “I need to know the terms. Knock out doesn’t seem right, because then how will you answer my questions?” As he talks, he takes careful note of the way Red Hood leans, ever so slightly, to the right. Bucky can feel the faint smirk on his lips, but he doubts Red Hood gets it. Bucky’s just glad to know the guy isn’t entirely invulnerable. He can feel pain.
”The fact you think you have a chance,” Red Hood begins.
Bucky curls his metal fist and slams it into Red Hood’s right side again, and watches the way his face contorts. He feels almost bad when he kicks, aiming for his temple, but it’s pretty much life or death and it doesn’t matter how young the kid looks. Bucky knows he’s lethal.
Red Hood’s teal eye flutters shut as he gasps out in pain.
—
Jason isn’t even fully conscious, but he’s fucking pissed. His entire right side feels like it’s been hit by a train, and there’s a throbbing in his head accompanying the flavor of copper in his mouth. He shifts, and realizes he’s bound pretty tightly. When he opens his eyes, he can’t help but snort. He knows this motel, with its shit stain walls and its piss yellow flooring.
The single beds are pushed together, against one wall, and there’s a map tacked above it. Interesting. His helmet has also been removed, and is sitting on the floor. Rude.
Someone brought a stupid metal folding chair in and has bound him to it.
Even more interesting is the half-muzzled man half asleep in that hideous armchair. Before Jason can really capitalize on this, the door swings open.
“I got hotdogs, fries, and tacos- Oh, you’re awake.”
Jason turns, and it’s the pretty blond one. “Sorry ‘bout your face,” he says. He figures his smirk probably doesn’t lend validity to the statement, but that’s not really his problem.
Across from him, the muzzled one shifts. Ah. So not asleep.
“Clint,” Muzzle snaps.
Clint makes a face back, “What? Bucky, he is awake!”
Jason laughs at that, “Baby, I think he’s more annoyed that you walked in with your hands full and no plan in case I attacked.”
Bucky gives Jason a look that could rival Dick’s bitch face. Jason spares half a moment to wonder if his lips pucker the same way. Bucky furrows his brows, and then looks back towards Clint. “Even he knows to be alert when entering a room with someone dangerous, and there’s just no way he has as many years of training as you do.”
Jason raises his brow, scowling. “You have no idea how many years of training I have.”
Clint snorts, but he plops himself beside Bucky, handing him a carton of fries in the process. “Listen, pal, you’d have had to start pretty damn young to beat either of us. I’m talking infancy.”
Jason is not impressed. Bucky looks like he’s maybe 26. Maybe. And while Clint might be closer to thirty, Jason doubts they’re that far ahead of him. “Listen, as fun as this is, I’m gonna let myself out of these ropes now.”
Only, when he flexes his fingers, looking for the knife that should be tucked up his sleeve, there’s nothing. He flexes a few muscles, feeling for the tell-tale pressure.
Clint watches him, lazily, and then says, “You can relax. Unless you’ve got stuff tucked into your bad-touch zones, we cleaned you out.” He waves lazily behind Jason. “Don’t worry though, everything is present and accounted for, and will be returned to you at the end of the meeting.”
Now Jason is properly pissed. Not that Clint or Bucky really seem phased. They pass the fries back and forth, not really looking at him. But Jason knows if he tries something they’ll be on him in seconds. Doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try and get free. “The hell are these ropes made of?” Jason demands.
Clint shrugs, half a hot dog crammed in his mouth and mustard on his chin. “Dunno. You’d have to ask IronMan. He made it.”
Bucky slaps him, and then gently thumbs the mustard off, wiping it on a napkin. “Stop telling him things.” But he removes his half muzzle anyway.
Clint leans into Bucky, despite his frown. “What? What’s he gonna do with that information? It’s not like it’s a secret.”
”Wait, Iron Man? Avengers’ Iron Man?” Jason tilts his head. “Who are you two supposed to be?”
Clint frowns at him, something raw and wounded in his blue eyes. “Ouch,” he complains. “But I guess you haven’t really seen me in my gear.” He doesn’t tell Jason who he is though.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Look, pal, we don’t actually care about you or what you do. We just gotta know why you keep getting in our way.”
Clint frowns at Bucky, and Bucky frowns right back. Jason hates it. He hates that whole, “We’ve been together so long we don’t need words” bullshit. But he lets them have their little conversation while he continues to work at his bindings.
Damn, but Iron Man has skills. Bruce would be interested in these. “Hey, what kind of wings are those?” Jason asks after several moments of silence.
Both men swivel their heads towards him; Bucky looks angry and Clint looks tired. “I’ve got medium, lemon pepper, and honey garlic.”
Jason wrinkles his nose. “No hot honey mustard?”
Clint’s kicked-puppy look could make Slade break. “They were out.”
Bucky lets out the sort of long suffering sigh that makes Jason wince, makes him feel all of 13 again, like he’s annoying Bruce. Although, Bruce never had that same undertone of amusement. Bucky grabs Clint’s face and makes him look eye to eye as he asks, “What has Widow said about feeding stray vigilantes?”
Clint scoffs. “He’s hardly a stray! Look at him! He’s all muscle and, and,” he pulls out of Bucky’s hold and waves both hands at Jason. “There’s no rule about feeding maybe-evil vigilantes.”
Jason raises an eyebrow. “You’re an idiot, baby,” he tells Clint. “Don’t feed stray vigilantes.” It’s worth it for the snort of laughter it elicited from Bucky, and the blush that rises from somewhere under the collar of Clint’s shirt and ends on the bridge of his nose.
“You’re the baby,” he grumbles. Bucky elbows Clint, hard, and then immediately tries to smooth the forming bruise, all contrition and regret in his blue eyes.
Jason rolls his eyes. “Get a room, you two.”
Clint glances at him, and then makes a show of looking around. “Hey, for real though, you hungry?”
Beside him, Bucky is statuesque, like he wants to be mad at Clint but he can’t quite find it in him. Instead, he’s protective. Jason tries to remember the last time someone cared about him that way. Dick, once, maybe. Maybe not. He’s a weapon, not something soft and fragile.
Jason stares too long and Bucky softens, his shoulders relaxing fractionally. “He’s genuine. He’ll feed you, if you’re hungry. Your place was pretty poorly stocked.”
Jason shakes his head. “Don’t you dare come near me.”
Both men raise their eyebrows, and then have another one of those secret conversations. Bucky must lose, because he slouches down, arms crossed.
Jason notices he still leans into Clint’s shoulder, though.
“If I release you, are you gonna knock me out again?” Clint asks. He’s already standing though, giving Jason a wide berth as he rounds him.
Jason considers it. Normally, it’d be an easy yes. But he’s curious about these two, and honestly? He’s tired. And he feels…. not safe, exactly. But something close. Something he’s not sure he ever felt with Bruce.
“Sure,” he agrees. “Gimme a few tacos and I’ll be your best friend. especially if you added extra pico.”
He can practically feel Clint’s beaming grin behind him. “You and Bucky. Freaks.”
Still, Jason is surprised when the bonds come off him, easily. He fucking needs to investigate that. Single point of connection? Secret latch? He wants his own set.
True to his word, Clint hands him a few tacos, soft with pico. Jason holds them, waiting. Bucky finally picks one out of his hand and takes a large bite, then hands it back. He chews as Clint talks.
“Sorry if we invaded your territory,” he says, leaning away from Bucky’s elbow. “We’re really only here for the Nazi Janitor.”
Jason blinks, mouth full of taco. Bucky throws his hands in the air in exasperation then shoves fries in his mouth.
Clint shrugs. “He’s not really a janitor. That’s his cover. But we can’t find him. Maybe you know about a secret tunnel with sketchy chemicals?’
Jason and Bucky make eye contact, and it turns out, it’s not that hard to have eye conversations. “You really are a moron, baby,” Jason sighs. “Stop telling ‘possibly-evil vigilantes’ all of your information!”
Clint smiles at him, all sunshine and ease, and Bucky stares at Clint with such a strained fondness it makes something squeeze painfully in Jason’s chest. “You’re hardly gonna kill me now. I’ve fed you, twice. I only had to feed Bucky once!”
Bucky buries his head in his hands and groans, long suffering, and Jason can’t stop the authentic laugh that bust out of him. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees.
Bucky’s head whips up, eyebrows lost in his curls somewhere. Jason shrugs. “You clearly need help looking after him, and if I’ve got Nazi’s in my city, I want them out.”
Bucky squares his shoulders and gives Jason an appraising look. “Careful, doll, Clint’s gonna wanna keep you forever.”
Jason gives him a low, lecherous grin, “You gonna join the party Big Bad?”
Bucky quirks his eyebrow. “Who said I share?”
Clint squawks beside Bucky in protest, but Bucky slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Doll. No one believes you aren’t interested.”
Jason laughs again, trying to remember the last time he was comfortable enough with anyone for genuine mirth. He’d half think Clint drugged him or some shit, but there’s no way to fake the warmth in Bucky’s eyes every time he glances over at him. “I got one request, boys,” Jason agrees.
Clint really is a sunshine puppy, his eyes and grin wide as his head perks up. Jason half expects a tail to wag. Bucky has the werewithall to at least look curious, if not totally intrigued.
“Ya’ll gotta leave this shithole hotel. My home base is safer.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, even as he stands and starts handing Jason his weapons. “Your shithole is empty. Clint is gonna wanna domesticate it. You don’t have anywhere else?”
Clint shrugs at Jason. “I’ll probably wanna domesticate wherever you put us. Bucky said you don’t even have a mattress. Just a blanket nest. Which can be nice. But not even a mattress?”
—
They do, eventually, find the Nazi janitor. Of course, where there’s one, there’s more, so Jason, Bucky, and Clint sprawl in the california king looking at a map and arguing over potential bases.
No one even considers breaking up their little trio.