You've Got a Deal

Clint took a drink of the champagne that was being circulated and shuddered. He thought that an auction valued well into the millions would fork out enough for the good stuff at least, but hey, it was Hydra after all.

He could pick out a few familiar faces in the crowd, but not as many as he’d expected. It was possible that the likes of Kingpin and Dr Doom thought they were too good to show up in person and sent third party buyers. It was also possible that they thought they were too good to buy second hand items from a nearly obsolete organization. Either way, Clint was glad that there weren’t as many Big Bads there to recognize him (which was an odd feeling as a former spy).

There were still plenty of other people there, which made sense. It wasn’t every day that Hydra sold off its assets. Apparently, being a failing villain organization with outdated morals was expensive these days. The word on the street was that they were floundering and needed funds to keep up with their expenses.

SHIELD had heard rumors for a while, but nobody knew that the auction was happening until just days before. By the time that SHIELD got word that the auction was actually going down, they barely had time to make a plan. It was definitely not their best work, that was for sure. Clint was the highest ranking employee still in New York, and even though he was unofficially retired, he wasn’t given an option of going in. As far as SHIELD was concerned, his retirement papers were waiting to be processed, and that made him as good as gone. Until they needed him, that was. They assured him that he was safe; he was simply tasked with watching, keeping an eye on who bought what (a job that even he couldn’t fuck up).

In all honestly, Clint didn’t trust SHIELD as far as he could throw Fury. He didn’t believe that he would be safe, or that any mission with SHIELD would be safe. They always hid more than they told their agents, making every mission dangerous. They allowed him to work with Phil, though, and that helped ease some of the distrust that had grown in the past months.

Clint was registered as a third party buyer. When he entered the large room, he had to give up his personal cell phone and was given an auction paddle and a burner with no gps capabilities. He was allowed to use it for one number only, a number that had to be pre-approved by Hydra: the buyer he was supposed to be working for. It felt weird to be allowed on a phone at a super secret villain auction, but he wasn’t the one running it, so there was no point in sweating it. 

He would never be able to go to a generic ballroom event again without having flashbacks to the past two hours. It was the same place that Peter had his prom (or maybe Hulkling or America, one of the scarily young new superheroes). If there had been streamers, it probably would have looked exactly the same, too. There were small tables covered in silky white material with numbers in the middle. There was a bar along one wall where the waiters were going to refill their drinks, and were the people attending were going to pay for their purchases.

At the front of the room, there was a raised stage that was probably intended for DJs or a band. This time, though, it was being used by the auctioneer, a thin man in a cheap suit (when you spent time with Tony and Phil, you knew a cheap suit when you saw one). Various lots would be paraded across the stage and bid on. 

It was one of the stranger experiences that he’d ever been involved in. It was also one of the most boring things that he’d ever done. For an evil organization, there wasn’t a lot of interesting things that they had to offer. Clint had seen better in the SHIELD vault. Hell, he had seen better walking the streets of Bed Stuy. It looked like their intel about Hydra had been right; they were going to age out of the game.

“-sold! Lot 28 sold to paddle #1408.”

He rounded one of the small tables one more time (the same kind that was at all of the Stark Industry events that Clint was forced to go to all the time), and clicked the call button on the cheap phone.

“I don’t think there’s anything of interest for us here, boss. Accountants, decades old designs… our money is better spent somewhere else.”

Coulson’s cool voice was on the other end of the line, as steady as it was on any other field mission they had done together. “Stay until the end anyway, just in case.”

Any other conversation was cut off, as the auctioneer started speaking again. Clint hung up and focused back on the stage.

“And now, lot 29. The prize of the whole collection.”

The man gestured to the red curtain covering a section that had been set up in the back of the stage. Clint had thought it was decoration, or an attempt to go along with the Hydra color scheme, not something that was actually functional. Two guards in standard Hydra uniforms disappeared behind the red silk and brought out the last auction item. Except it wasn’t an item. It was a person.

Technically, there had been a handful of people sold already, but that wasn’t the people so much as their contracts with Hydra. Several of the weapons designers’ contracts were bought out, the entire accounting department (which seemed like a fairly terrible idea for a company that was nearly out of money, but again, not Clint’s problem), as well as a few personal assistants. Something told him that this lot, this person, was different.

He was being escorted by the elbows, hands pulled behind his back in a way that made Clint assume that they were tightly cuffed. The man was wearing a pair of tactical pants not unlike the ones Clint himself usually wore, and that was all. No shirt or shoes. Well, that was nearly all. On the man’s face, he was wearing what could only be described as a muzzle. It covered the bottom half of his face, effectively muting him.

It was hard to pay attention to anything except the man’s left arm, though. Or at least, what Clint could see of it. It had been replaced by something sleek, silver, and dangerous looking. It was surprisingly elegant, and undoubtedly cruel. The place where the metal arm met his body was covered in thick keloid scars. Because his hands were handcuffed behind his back, Clint couldn't see the full detail, but he could see enough.

There was no doubt what the man was to Hydra: he was a weapon.

Clint quickly pushed the call button again and held his phone back up to his ear. “Boss.”

“Lot 29 is Hydra’s crowning jewel. The reason that so many of us are here! He is known by many names, but most commonly he is referred to as the Winter Soldier, or simply, the Asset. He is the product of decades of research, experiments, and fine tuning. The Asset is the best of the best, the nightmare of Hydra’s enemies. The Asset is a once in a lifetime chance to get ahead of your own enemies, to carve out your own spot in the world. Bidding will begin in 10 minutes. You may all take a closer look at the lot now. Everyone not interested in this lot may begin to settle their purchases with Jessup in the back of the room.”

As the auctioneer’s voice cut off, shuffling noises began to fill the room. Clint cleared his throat. “Boss, let our investor know that we can’t let this one go.”

In all honesty, Clint wasn’t sure if they actually had financial backing for this mission. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to actually purchase anything. Hell, he wasn’t supposed to do anything but attend then report back to Coulson. SHIELD usually required a full budget proposal, well in advance, or they wouldn’t cough up any cash, and there was practically no time at all to prepare for this mission. Hopefully Coulson would figure it out. If not, well… better not to think about what would happen if he promised potentially millions of dollars to Hydra that he couldn't actually come up with. 

The crowd was thinning out fast. If he had to guess, most of the people attending didn’t have the money to buy an actual human. Some may have thought it was too ostentatious a move, too. That was fine; it gave him better odds of being able to pull this off. 

In the end, there were only five other buyers left in the room. Two of them stayed where they were already standing at the white-covered tables, waiting for the auction to begin. A third stood briefly to take a quick look at the Asset, no more than a glance up and down, then sat back down. There was no reason for Clint to follow, really, but he couldn’t help himself; call it morbid curiosity.

He slowly made his way toward the stage, gripping the glass in his hand tightly. Maybe he was getting soft in his old age or maybe anticipation of retirement had gotten to him, but for maybe the first time ever, he really had to work hard at keeping calm and maintaining his cover.

Or maybe, it was just that the whole situation was fucking horrible. He was at an auction hosted by a literal Nazi organization, trying to figure out the going rate of a highly expirmented on, and probaby tortured, cybernetically enhanced person. 

Clint looked the man up and down as he walked closer, not really sure if he was trying to memorize every detail or forget it the second it made its way into his brain. It looked like the years, however many it had been, had been rough on the Soldier, slashing scars across his body in vicious arcs. There were obvious bullet wounds that had torn through his body, the entry wound of one above the waistband of his pants and another under his left pectoral. The bicep of his flesh arm bore what Clint knew were acid burns (knowledge that brought back scent memories that he would never forget).

It made him wish that he hadn’t answered the phone, that he had stayed in Bed-Stuy, under his covers. That he would have accepted his forced retirement when SHIELD brought it up the first time (and the second, and the third). He wished that he had listened to Nat’s advice to cut ties while he could, that there was no reason to feel guilty about actions that he wasn’t responsible for, that he had nothing to pay back.

Natasha once told him that he was the only spy that she had met with a conscience. He had thought that she was over-emphasizing his sense of morality, until he had time to evaluate his guilt over Loki. 

He was too trapped in his mind, because he made the mistake to end all mistakes: he made eye contact with the Soldier. 

The man’s face was mostly covered, both by the mask and a messy tangle of hair, but his eyes… they were the piercing blue of a fire that was burning too hot. There was rage and hatred so strong Clint wanted to flinch. For some reason, he was surprised that the man still had that much of a sense of self, though he couldn’t say why he thought that would be the case. But it wasn’t. It looked like the Soldier was memorizing everyone’s faces and planning excrutiatingly detailed ways to torture and kill them all. 

Clint couldn’t blame him in the slightest.

A light, cold voice spoke from behind him. “Turn.”

Clint only just stopped himself from jumping out of his skin. Fuck this job. How someone managed to walk up without him noticing… it wasn’t a promising sign, okay?

The man was perfectly average. Slim build, brown hair, completely average face. He wore a well fitted suit that didn’t have a single distinguishing feature. They were all the same details that made Clint great at his job, and that made Clint suspicious.

The Soldier’s cold gaze flicked to the other buyer, but gave no indication that he heard or understood what was obviously an order. A few tense moments passed then, with no preamble, the two Hydra members still flanking the Soldier pulled cattle prods from their belts and rammed it harshly in the Soldier’s side.

Seeing someone being electrocuted was always unpleasant. The Soldier took it better than Clint had ever seen, but it was still fairly horrifying. The Soldier's body tensed all over as he fell to his knees. Clint could see that despite the pain and electricity pulsing through his body, the Soldier struggled to hold the metal arm as far away from his body as the handcuffs would allow. 

Something in Clint’s stomach twisted unpleasantly. Somehow, Hydra found the one torture method that would be grossly effectiv for a man with a metal arm and incredibly easy to administer from a short distance away. How many methods had they been through before they figured it out?

Nobody showed even the smallest hint of sympathy, so Clint couldn’t either. Jesus, he had grown weak in retirement; he felt sick just watching the Soldier struggle back to his feet. Tasha would be so ashamed of him.

It took several long minutes until the Soldier managed to stand unaided, and after a long glare at the second potential buyer, began to make a slow circle to show off all of himself. The back of his shoulder was even more mangled and scarred than the front, as though they had made endless attempts to properly implant the metal arm and ripped up anything in their way. On the opposite shoulder blade was a perfectly crisp brand of Hydra’s fucked up octopus logo.

The demanding buyer got as close to the Soldier as he could, his crisp shirt millimeters away from the Soldier’s chest. He brought a hand up, but the guard shook his head. Apparently touching wasn’t allowed. Knots that he didn’t know were there unclenched in his stomach. With an exasperated sigh, the buyer turned to the second guard. In the same brisk, commanding tone as before, he asked, “Can I see it with the pants off?”

Clint’s heart dropped. There was no way he would be able to watch them strip the Soldier. There was no good reason any buyer would need to see what was under his pants, unless his intentions were less about buying a weapon and more about buying a body. For probably the first and only time in his life, Clint was thankful for Hydra. The guard who said no to touching curled up his lip like he found the request just as disgusting as Clint did. The other gave a sharp, “No.”

They gripped the Soldier by his elbows and directed him back onto the raised platform. There was no way that ten minutes was already up, but clearly the guards didn’t want to humor the other buyer anymore. The auctioneer appeared again, slightly flustered at the change in the schedule.

“We want to thank you all for being here and for your support. Now, as promised, the most anticipated lot of the night. With more than 300 confirmed kills over six decades, enhanced with a serum derived from the notorious Captain America himself, this is the Asset.

“Now that you’ve had adequate time to examine the lot, let’s start the bidding at $500,000.”

If he’d had more time to think about it, Clint would have realized what idiots they had been, or maybe it was their informant who was the idiot. The auction wasn’t for assests, it was for The Asset. Or maybe he would have thought about how low that number was. Clint could practically pay the initial bid himself. And that was the price for an enhanced human, a curated weapon. 

He didn’t have time for those thoughts, though, because he was busy trying to keep track of the sudden flurry of noise and bids. There may not have been a lot of bidders left, but unlike previous lots, they were all bidding. It wasn’t one or two competing like it had been on a few lots; it was all five gunning for the Soldier.

Before he knew it, he had his paddle up, bidding 6.5 million. He took a tiny little bit of pleasure in spending that much of someone else’s money.

The closer it got to an eight digit number, the more people dropped out until eventually it was just Clint and the man who wanted to see the Soldier naked. Clint had no intention of losing in the first place, but there was no fucking way that he would lose to that perverted asshole. No goddamn way.

He didn’t hesitate to raise his paddle at $102 million, or at $104, or at $105. He did nothing but grin at the other bidder, who hesitated at $107. Through the whole process, the Soldier stared blankly between the two of them. Clint maintained eye contact when he placed the final, winning bid. It seemed like the least he could do, to acknowledge the man he was about to buy.

$109,500,000.

The auctioneer banged his gavel. “Sold to the third party buyer, paddle #7. You can confirm the purchasing details with Jessup in the far corner. Everyone else, thank you so much for your interest and your purchases. Please keep us in mind in the future for all of your potential needs.”

Clint breathed a (mental) sigh of relief. The first part, the hard part, was over. Hopefully Coulson had enough time to get the finances taken care of. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and gave the Soldier one last look before he pressed send and started making his way over to the table. The expression on his face stayed completely the same, which was a little heartbreaking and a lot disconcerting.

Hopefully the Soldier didn’t murder him the second the left the building. He maybe deserved it, though; he wouldn’t really blame the man for trying. That was a worry for later, though. For now, he needed to focus on actually finishing the purchase, because if for some reason he couldn’t confirm the payment, he certainly would be killed.

Coulson finally picked up on the other end.

“Okay, boss. We got a steal. $109.5.”

“Boss, I like that! But please tell me that they didn’t pull me away from my workshop for $110 thousand. I have suits that cost more than that, and I’m not even talking about the mechanical ones!”

Okay, that definitely wasn’t Coulson, then. That brand of babbling could only belong to Tony Stark. Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes. There was not a single bit of him that wanted to deal with Stark right now, but he had to admit that the man was probably the best source of quick cash around. The incessant babbling was a small price to pay for it.

“Millions, sir. $109.5 million for Hydra’s Asset.”

There was a fake dramatic gasp on the other end. “Why, I’m almost proud of you! Even I have trouble spending that much in one fell swoop. We’ll be getting back to that ominous sounding ‘Asset’ later, though.”

Clint finally made his way to the table. The person that the auctioneer referred to as Jessup was lanky and barely looked up from their cell phone. They didn’t say a word as they slid a slip of paper to Clint. It had a spot to write a bank account number and a routing number. Along with it, they slid across a smart looking pen with the Hydra logo on it. 

The image of someone shopping around for the best deal on branded office supplies popped into his head and he had to stop himself from snorting. What the hell was Hydra doing with pens that looked like they wouldn’t be out of place at a bank? Maybe that’s why they were so fucking broke; they had no clue what the hell to spend money on and what was a total waste.

Stark was still talking non-stop in his ear. Apparently, Jessup could hear the noise and gave Clint a sympathetic look. Or at least, he hoped it was a sympathetic look and that Jessup couldn’t make out any of the words. Stark wasn’t exactly what he would call “discrete”. One more reason to just get everything done with as soon as possible.

“Boss. Boss, can I get the numbers?”

“Well, jeez! Way to make a guy feel wanted. No care about my charming personality or witty banter, just money money mon-”

There was a scuffle then a blessed moment of silence before Coulson’s voice came over the line. “You still there?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay. Account number is 3392087751 and the routing number is 915575845.”

Clint hurried to get them written down quickly and handed them over to Jessup. He wasn’t sure what he expected, exactly. Maybe a fancy laptop set up, or a call to a banker, but no. Jessup just fiddled on his phone a second longer before showing Clint that he was pulling up… CashApp? Really? The whole situation was downright comical at this point. It should probably be a hugely tense moment, waiting for confirmation that he just purchased the Soldier, but instead he was reminded of that time that Spiderman sent Cashapp requests to any Avenger who made a dad joke (he had made out like a bandit).

He startled when the auctioneer and guards walked up behind him. The auctioneer clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a wide grin. Clint’s eyes flicked back to the Soldier. 

It took barely any time at all for the confirmation to go through. Jessup nodded to the small collection of people, and that was it. The Winter Soldier officially belonged to him now. Well, the false identity that his current false identity was working for. 

Clint hung up his phone.

The guards all but shoved the shackled Soldier in his direction. The auctioneer held out his hand to shake Clint’s. He shook it about as enthusiastically as you’d imagine someone who just sold something for nearly 110 million would. When he pulled away, he handed a slim folder to Clint.

“We would love to thank you and your patron for your donation to the cause. Any information you need to know about your purchase, as well as the key to the cuffs are in the folder. Enjoy, sir, and have a good evening.”

And then it was just Clint alone with the Soldier.

&&&&&&&&&&&

An ex-carnie, ex-superhero turned landlord and a centuries old assassin walk into an alley… Clint wasn’t sure what the punchline was yet.

He glanced over at the Soldier, who continued to glare. There was a distinct and disturbing lack of blinking happening. It was the perfect time for his brain to remind him of that time Nat told him about her encounter with the Winter Soldier, and the resulting bullet wound she still carried. 

Clint would have felt much better if he could have had his bow, right about then. 

The alley that they were in was dank, tucked well out of sight of the main street. The other end was cut off by a half-gate and a large car. So basically, if anything went wrong, they were fucked. And just Clint, singular, was fucked if the Soldier decided to make a break for it now.

If Nat had been the one to do this job, she probably would have matched him glare for glare. Or they would have bonded over that time he shot her and their disturbing Russian pasts. If it was Coulson, he would have worn his cool, calm attitude around himself like a cloak of protection. Stark would talk him into a daze, Sam would start a therapy session, Steve would subdue him with his powers of truth or justice or some shit. 

But they weren’t there. It was just Clint. Normal, human Clint, who was getting old and tired of hurting all the fucking time, who was forced to retire, who honestly couldn’t care less about his “duty” to deliver the Soldier to another shadowy organization that would probably poke and prod him until they decided he needed to be killed and cut open for optimal examination. Honestly, he really didn’t want to do that, but it wasn’t his choice. He was just Barton; he had no power to make decisions.

Clint sighed and looked down at the shackles still held loosely in his hands, then back up at the face mask (the fucking muzzle). So goddamn dehumanizing. It was disgusting, and Clint really wanted to think that SHIELD would be better than that, but he wasn’t about to bet anything on that.

“Once we get in the car, I’ll take the mask off. The rest… that’s up to my bosses.”

The Soldier didn’t respond or indicate in any way that he understood, but Clint was pretty sure that he heard. Clint couldn’t really fault him for deciding not to reply, and using the only autonomy he had left. (Spiderman and Katie Kate would be so proud that their lesson on personal autonomy had stuck).

The silence was suffocating, but thankfully it wasn’t long before a sleek black SUV pulled up to the mouth of the alley and flashed its lights twice (not original as far as signals went, but it worked). Clint led them in an awkward shuffle the entire way, trying not to pull uncomfortably on the Soldier but with enough urgency that they wouldn’t be seen, tapping the tinted window twice before he reached to open the door. There was a visor up between the front and back seats, but even if it was down, Clint was pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize whatever rookie got saddled with the job.

Despite being handcuffed, the Soldier ducked into the vehicle with a disturbing amount of grace, completely silently. Clint followed behind him and tossed the folder onto the wheel well at his feet. The second he closed the door behind them, the car was off. Neither of them bothered with seatbelts.

Clint was nothing if not a man of his word (well, mostly), so he awkwardly gestured to the Soldier’s mask. For a few seconds, the Soldier just stared, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to turn his back to Clint. Frankly, that was understandable. He had kept his eyes on the Soldier the entire time, too, and didn’t intend to change that. The desire to get the muzzle off apparently won out, though, because the Soldier finally turned in his seat, in the same smooth as glass motions.

There weren’t any complicated locks or buckles holding the mask on, just a few simple snaps buried in the Soldier’s long hair.

It was only years of training that kept his hands from shaking. He carefully undid the top snap, which was easiest to get to. It was easy to unsnap, rubbed smooth from frequent use. The top layer of the Soldier’s hair shifted and fully covered the bottom snap. Clint carefully moved it out of the way as best as he could, but realized that several strands were caught tightly in the bottom snap. He tried to gently move them out of the way, but couldn’t manage to. The hair crimped in the snap caused it to get stuck. 

Normally, he’d have a knife (or two) hidden on his person, and he could simply cut away the mask straps, or even the hair that was stuck. He had managed to sneak them into many weapons-free areas, but this time someone didn’t want to risk the auction.

“This might hurt.”

He slipped as many fingers as he could between the two sides of the strap and the Soldier’s head, careful not to force the mask too tightly on the Soldier’s face or get any more hair caught. After just a second or two of hesitation, he pulled, hard. Thankfully, he didn’t actually pull any hair out, but it couldn’t have been a pleasant feeling. 

The Soldier didn’t even flinch, and when he turned back to Clint, his grin  was so vicious that it took Clint several long seconds to realize that he knew the face that he had uncovered.

“Holy shit, you’re Bucky fucking Barnes.”

Anyone who survived middle school in the United States knew of Bucky Barnes. And sure, Clint was exactly focused on academics when he was in school, but like any self-respecting queer kid with nowhere to go and a library card, he had done countless hours of research on the romance-that-never-was of Captain America and James Buchanan Barnes.

Everyone knew that he fell tragically to his death, though there were always conspiracy theories that he was chilling with Elvis in Cuba. Apparently there was more truth to them than Clint thought, because there he was, sitting in a car with a very alive Bucky Barnes. What the fuck.

Suddenly, everything got about a hundred times more complicated. Clint’s brain was racing. If the Soldier had been any random person, Clint could have turned him over to SHIELD without that much guilt or stress. But this was a 100 year old super-soldier who undoubtedly played a role in some of history's most important moments. SHIELD would keep him locked away forever, doing all of the experiments they couldn’t do on Cap.

...and Cap. Jesus, what would happen if he found out that Clint knew his long lost best friend slash possibly lover existed and didn’t do anything about it? Honestly, what would he do if he knew that he allowed that to happen?

The Soldier looked about as shocked as Clint felt. Shocked and worried, and what the fuck was he going to do? The vehicle was moving too quickly, he didn’t have enough time to figure out what the hell to do. He wasn’t a decision maker, he was strictly an order follower. He needed a plan, quicker than quick.

Okay, okay Clint could do this. Plans were about working one step at a time. He could do that. First step had to be getting out of the car. No, that was step two. 

He pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number. He immediately hung up and called right back, their emergency signal. Natasha picked up on the second ring, but Clint didn’t give her time to say anything.

“Nat, I’m about to do something really stupid and I need you to cover for me.”

“How stupid?”

Clint sighed. “Budapest supid. I’m gonna ditch my phone. I’ll call you back when I can.”

Natasha was silent for a few seconds, and sounded worried when she finally said, “Clint, this was just supposed to be a milk run. Just… just be safe. Please.”

He didn’t bother responding. They both knew that going off script on a mission would make it unsafe. He gave himself five seconds to think about what an idiot he was being. That was all he had, five seconds. Then, he slipped his cell phone deep in the cushion of the SUV where it wouldn’t be found quite as easily. He grabbed the folder at his feet and slipped out the handcuff key.

Clint finally glanced up at the Soldier. He wiggled the key and asked, “So, you wanna make a break for it?”

There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. The Soldier nodded, then turned to give Clint access to his hands. The handcuffs seemed little better than standard police-issue. He undid then quickly and shoved them in his suit pants, key and all. Maybe they’d be useful later, who knew. He considered the folder and shoved it in the back of his suit pants, just in case.

There was a chance, a very good chance, that the Soldier would bolt the second they got out of the car. In any other situation, he probably wouldn’t give an assassin freedom to escape the way that he was with the Soldier. There was something different about the Soldier, though. Clint got that same gut feeling that he had gotten about Natasha. It told him that the Soldier wasn’t a bad person, that he would take the chance to find freedom instead of going back to HYDRA. It was a risk that he would take if it meant saving someone.

Okay, step one down. Next step. Clint thanked the universe for the fact that SHIELD sent their greenest agents on missions like this. He banged on the divider and shouted, “Hey, stop! I think something is wrong!”

Any other agent would have called bullshit at the breach of protocol or they would have rolled down the partition to ask for details. But the poor little newbie, who was used to following directions instead of thinking, slammed on the breaks. The second the SUV rolled to a stop, Clint yanked the door open and threw himself out. The Soldier flowed out gracefully after him. 

He quickly looked around and was glad to see that the neighborhood looked familiar. Good, okay, plan acquired. With a backwards glance at the Soldier (who somehow didn’t look even remotely freaked out), Clint started booking it back the way they came. At the next block, he made a right, then a left two blocks over. 

By some wist of fate, they had ended up in Bed Stuy. They were only blocks away from his apartment complex. For a brief second, he considered taking them there, but he knew that it would be the first place that SHIELD would come looking for them. No, they had to go somewhere more anonymous. 

There. Nestled between two buildings was a small pre-war era brownstone that had been converted to a hotel. There were no signs advertising its presence, and if you didn’t already know about it, there’d be no way to tell what it was.

Clint slowed to a stop just outside of its fence. He needed to catch his breath before they could enter. Had to look inconspicuous. He was honestly surprised that the Soldier kept pace the entire way. Clint had mostly expected him to run off on his own. But hey, no big deal to Clint. It was easier to look unassuming as two people than it was alone, which was part of the reason he and Nat worked so well together. Except the Soldier didn’t have a shirt or shoes on, and oh yeah, metal arm.

Thank fuck he remembered to put on an undershirt that afternoon. 

He quickly stripped his dress shirt. In all likelihood, the undershirt would probably fit the Soldier better than the button down, but the short sleeves wouldn’t hide his arms. An ill fitted dress shirt would have to do. Clint handed it to the Soldier.

He stared at it for a few long seconds. It suddenly occurred to Clint that he hadn’t actually clued the Soldier in to anything they were doing. As far as the Soldier knew, they went running around aimlessly. Hell, as far as he knew, Clint was creating some elaborate scenario to get the Soldier to trust him before sweeping in and bringing him straight to the Big Bad. Clint opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, the Soldier grabbed the shirt and pulled it on.

It didn’t exactly fit. It if weren’t for Clint’s archery-built shoulders and arms, there would have been absolutely no hope. As it was, the Soldier could only button the bottom three buttons. It was just enough to change him from a cybernetically enhanced and dangerous person to a possibly drunk gym rat. Maybe. Hopefully that wasn’t just Clint’s horny-brain talking for him.

Just one last thing. “Can I touch your hair? Just to brush it back.”

The Soldier hesitated, but nodded. Clint pretended not to notice the flinch when his hands got close to the Soldier’s face. He tried his best to make it quick, but there were snarls and tangles that kept catching on his fingers. He managed to push most of it back. It wasn’t enough to hide the fact that it was dirty and unkempt, but it was good enough.

He pulled back and nodded.

“Okay, so. This is a hotel. Very discrete. We’re going to rent a room, lay low for a few days until my contact handles things on there end and we can figure it out. Just stay behind me and don’t say anything okay?”

Clint didn’t wait for the Soldier to nod, just spun on the spot and headed for the front door.

The interior was decorated in warm tans and browns with deep red accents. It was dimly lit and cozy. To the left was a small nook that Clint knew held a full bookshelf and several computers. In front of them was a large mahogany desk, and a single, tired-looking worker going through some paperwork. Clint put on a slightly dopey grin and walked straight to them, but waited until they looked up to say anything. Couldn’t seem too eager.

There was a small purse sticking out from behind the desk, no doubt belonging to the employee. The bag was decorated with rainbow pins. A horrible idea crossed his mind. If he were with anyone else, it would probably work. But with the Soldier… it was basically committing suicide with extra steps. He didn’t have long to decide, though, and nobody ever mistook Clint for being smart.

“Hello, and welcome to the BedStuy Inn. How can I help you?”

“Hi, good evening. My partner and I were wondering if we could rent a room for a few days.”

The girl’s smile turned a little more genuine. She made brief eye contact with Clint, then looked back down paperwork in front of her. “Sure thing, sir. Are you looking for any particular room tonight? We offer two queen beds, one king, or a suite.”

“One king, please.” The Soldier’s voice was scratchy, but could easily pass for sexy-growly-sexy instead of unused-and-abused. Clint had a half second to be mad that the Soldier hadn’t followed what little plan they had, followed by another second to realize that it was the first time he was actually hearing the Soldier’s voice. Then, his brain went blank.

Because that was definitely the Soldier closing in on his back, wrapping his arms low around Clint’s hips. It was the Soldier’s breath on the back of his neck, his nose brushing up against Clint’s neck, nuzzling. And okay, Clint was planning on using that exact cover. He had initiated the idea, in fact. It was just that he forgot the Soldier was an assassin, too. For over 6 decades, which probably meant that he probably knew at least the basics of espionage. 

Clint hoped that his pause didn’t seem too awkward. He pushed all of his thoughts to the back of his head. Not the time to be distracted. He threw a wink and a grin to the girl.

“Little stay-cation, y’know? Always nice to get some time alone.”

He got a small smile back in return. “Of course, sir. One king for two nights.”

“Let’s make it three. What do you think, sweetheart?” 

Clint shivered at the breath across the back of his ear. And if his, “Yeah, three days,” was a little strained, it was just being in character. Playing the part, that was all. It had nothing to do with the fact that, aside from the prisoner of war thing, the Soldier was exactly his type and Clint hadn’t actually gotten any in a tragically long time.

The girl opened the old fashion ledger to record their stay. That the reason that Clint made a point to remember this place; the hotel didn’t use any digital records. Clint was pretty sure that it was meant for old yuppie couples to act as a “retreat from the world”, and not a safe haven for those who were running from potentially evil government agencies, but it worked nonetheless.

“Okay, sirs. Three nights will come to a total of $375. How would you like to be paying this evening?”

They probably wouldn’t need that long, but safe was better than sorry. It would give him some time to contact Nat, to formulate the rest of the plan. It also meant that he would potentially have to spend three days with the Soldier. He could do that… probably? 

Cling reached for his wallet from in his back pocket. The Soldier stayed pressed up against his back, which meant that his knuckles were brushing across the front of the Soldier’s pants. He would not be distracted, he would not be distracted, he would not grope the Soldier. He was a professional who could handle doing the most basic undercover work.

Right, yes, wallet. At this point, he wasn’t sure if hoarding cash was because of his circus days or his SHIELD training, or maybe even his friendship with Natasha. No matter the reason, he had hundreds folded into every corner of his wallet, and a few more inside a torn seam along the inside. He unfolded four of them and passed them over.

She quickly made change from a drawer below the desk and handed it back, along with a heavy bronze key.

“You’ll be in room 12, on the second floor. Our lounge is available 24/7, if for any reason you need to use our computers, and there is complimentary coffee starting at 7am. Feel free to ask anyone who works here for whatever you may need.”

Clint nodded and took the key with a thanks. He made sure to be polite, but didn’t want to linger any longer than totally necessary. The Soldier stayed close. He pulled his hands back, but was still close enough that Clint could feel the solid line of his body.

Downside number one to the small hotel: no elevator. They quickly made their way to the second floor. The doors they passed were thick wood, great for dampening sound. They passed two rooms before they got to their own door. The key slid into the lock smoothly.

Clint didn’t have time to check out the room, or even throw the lock, because the second the door shut behind them, he was slammed against it. The Soldier’s metal arm was pressed against his throat; it wasn’t enough to cut off his air, but it was enough that the threat was clear. And it was totally, completely not sexual at all, and the only reason Clint found it arousing was because of all the adrenaline. That was all.

The Soldier leaned in close. His expression was intense and focused. “You know who I am.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. But hey, it was true.

“I know of you, yeah. Basically everyone does, man.”

The Soldier stared for a few moments, maintaining eye contact as if he was trying to read answers in Clint’s eyes. Apparently he didn’t find anything, because he abruptly let go.

He snorted. “Well then, I’m the one person who doesn’t, then.”

Clint stayed against the door where the Soldier put him. There was probably no real danger, but it was better safe than sorry. Especially when sorry could mean being on the wrong end of a cyborg arm wielded by Hydra’s boogeyman. 

The Soldier was moving enough for both of them, anyway. He was pacing back and forth between the large bed and the window, running his flesh hand through his long hair. He was clearly distressed, and for a second, Clint had the image of a tiger pacing in a cage. Really, how different was it? They were both beautiful creatures who were abused at the hands of bad men.

He stopped pacing abruptly, then stalked back to Clint. The Soldier didn’t actually touch him, but he got close. Very close. Close enough that Clint couldn’t focus on anything but those burning blue eyes.

“Who are you, who do you work for?”

And look, Clint had endured literal torture before. He had been stabbed, shot at, waterboarded, shot. He had protected his employers (whoever they were at the time) through everything. This time, though… he didn’t really want to, not really. Not anymore. Not when he needed them and they left him out to dry after Loki.

He’d had such loyalty to SHIELD, and they turned around and treated him like hot garbage, just because he had done a few bad things when he was brainwashed and being controlled by an evil alien. 

The Soldier… he had done more than a few bad things, and he had less than zero loyalty to or from SHIELD. They would treat him so much worse, and Clint would be responsible for it, because he would be the one who brought the Soldier in. 

So, Clint looked him in the eyes and told him everything, more or less.

“My name is Clint. I’m here on behalf of SHIELD, but I don’t technically work for them anymore. Think secret spies for anything super-human or superhero. We didn’t know what would be at that auction. I was just there to keep track of any names we needed to be aware of.”

Apparently, the Soldier wasn’t used to getting answers right away, because his face was doing something very interesting. Honestly, Clint would probably be pretty confused if someone did the same thing to him, but hey, it was a brand new world after all.

He shrugged at the Soldier. “I was supposed to turn you over to them, but let’s just say that I know what it’s like to be punished by SHIELD for shit that you didn’t mean to do. I’m not going to put you in that position.”

The Soldier stepped back a couple large steps, nearly tripping over the bed. “How do you know that I didn’t do all of it willingly?”

They were bold words, and may have been intimidating or effective, if the Soldier didn’t look so terrified. 

Clint snorted (look, nobody ever called him emotionally sensitive). “Context clues.”

The Soldier let himself fall onto the bed, like all of his strings had been cut all at once. He buried his hand in his hair again. When he looked up, his expression was positively heartbreaking.

“I use’ta… not remember. Or maybe I just didn’t care about the things that I remembered? They would do something to my brain, make it all go away, but whatever they did stopped working right. I overheard one of the scientists say that the brain adapts after enough time. But none of the memories I’m remembering[p make sense. I can’t figure anything out, and I don’t know what any of it means.”

Clint wished that he didn’t understand, but he did, in a way. During the weeks after Loki, he would wake up not being able to remember anything but blue light. He would sit there, waiting for orders, until he snapped out of it or until someone (usually Nat) found him that way. Then, all of the memories would come rushing back, but he couldn’t make any sense of them. They were disjointed, incomplete. He had to start writing everything down to piece it all together.

The fancy doctors called it a fugue state. Clint called it hell. 

The Solider was trying to figure out 70 years of that, on top of 70 years of brainwashing, 70 years of conditioning, 70 years of abuse. Shit.

Clint wanted to help, he really did, but he wasn’t sure that he could. Not really. He couldn’t have survived without Nat, but she was only as helpful as she was because she knew him inside and out. She knew what he needed before he did; Clint had no fucking clue what the Soldier needed (step one was probably calling him by his first name…). 

There was one person who may be able to help, though. A person who knew the person that Bucky used to be, inside and out. Steve. If anyone could be that person for Bucky, it was Steve. They were best friends (not to mention the rumors that they were more than that). He was the only person alive who even knew Bucky. The question was, would Bucky want him to be that person?

Clint sighed and sat on the bed.

“Look, dude, I know it sucks, but-”

“Oh, you know huh? You were kidnapped, brainwashed, and tortured by a literal Nazi organization? You tortured and murdered people at their orders?” Bucky sounded furious, and rightfully so. Clint could remember how pissed he would be when people told him that they knew how he was feeling after Loki. Except they actually didn’t, and Clint sort of did.

“Not a Nazi organization, an alien. But yes to everything else. As I was saying, I know it sucks but it’s a little better when you can have a friend to help.”

It took a minute for Bucky to process what he was saying. The anger seemed to fade away, leaving confusion in its wake. Clint half expected him to ask more questions, to test what he was saying, but instead, Bucky snorted. “A friend? Who would want to be my friend?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind it, but I was thinking Steve?”

“Steve?” At first, Clint thought that Bucky couldn’t remember who Steve was, but that wasn’t quite it. There was a far-off look on his face, like he was trying to remember, to put those pieces together. Clint gave him time to work through it on his own.

Bucky fidgeted with the buttons on his (well, Clint’s) dress shirt. It seemed like he needed to constantly be in motion, playing with his hair, with the buttons. 

“I remember him, I think. I remember a lot about him, but sometimes he’s big and sometimes he’s small. I thought that I made him up, to help. Like an angel who could make himself into anything I needed him to be.”

Bucky’s accent was an odd mix of Russian and that old New York that Steve got sometimes when he was particularly upset or nostalgic. Clint had noticed that he’d been slipping into it more and more lately. He wondered, off-hand, if it would get stronger around Bucky or not.

Clint could see how it would be confusing, knowing Steve pre- and post-serum. It wasn’t unusual for people who were dealing with trauma to make up delusions like that, to have a consistency, an anchor to focus on safely (or so he read in one of the books on trauma that his therapist suggested).

“Yeah, that must be confusing, I bet. He did change, he’s very real, and misses you like crazy. He could help you remember, I bet. Some stuff, at least. The old stuff.”

Probably. Clint wasn’t going to add that part, though. Steve went out of his way to not mention Bucky. He would talk about his old life, about his time in the army, about his “friend”, but never about Bucky Barnes, his right hand man. Clint thought it was because of grief, distancing himself from the situation. Probably. If not, they would deal with it when they got there.

Bucky looked back up at Clint, with that intense eye contact that he got sometimes. “You think so? You think he can help?”

Clint took his time to answer. He didn’t want to give Bucky any false hope, or say something untrue that could lead to him being upset later, even unintentionally. 

“I think that it would help you, one way or the other. I think Steve will help you remember old things, I think that therapy could give you tools that you need to help yourself. It helped me, at least.”

Bucky looked back down. “The alien thing, huh?”

It was a half-question. Clint could easily dodge it, brush it off with a half answer. He didn’t want to, though. Mostly because he was sick of trying to hide his feelings about the situation and because Bucky was completely unbiased about the situation, but also because it would help Bucky to hear Clint be open about what happened. 

Clint slowly made his way over to the bed and sat down next to Bucky, leaving as much room between them as he could so that Bucky wouldn’t feel like he was being crowded.

“Long story short, this guy who thought he was a god came to take over Earth. He had magic powers and could take over people’s brains. He got into my head, used me like a puppet, made me hurt my friends, and left a big mess to clean up. His brand of magic was… he could finesse it in any way he wanted, and what he wanted was to leave as little of us behind as possible. When I came to, I fought against him, but once the battle was over and I had no purpose it was… that was the worst part of all.”

There was something about that void of not having purpose that really messed him up. That first morning, when he woke up in medical, he had attacked a nurse. Luckily Nat and Coulson had been there to stop him.

Bucky gave a subdued shudder, like he knew exactly what Clint was saying. “And what, this SHIELD that you work for paid to have you fixed?”

That made Clint laugh out loud, a loud, surprised noise. “No, they didn’t. They put me on unpaid leave pending an investigation. A friend paid for a therapist. He had to push me into it. Steve helped convince me, actually. And I don’t think there’s such a thing as fixed, but it helped. A lot”

More like Steve guilted him into it, really. He lived in a sort of trance until Steve and Tony cornered Clint in the community kitchen one evening, telling him that they were concerned, that the team was concerned, that Coulson was concerned. Tony personally recommended a therapist, a coworker of the one he started seeing after Afghanistan. They were gentle, said they understood if he wasn’t ready. It made him feel just shitty enough to make an appointment, even though he fully expected to never go back again. 

“Hydra took a lot from me, but… I don't remember most of it. I don’t remember who I was. I just know that I want to. You really think that all that would help?”

There was a quiet sniffling and Bucky wiped angrily at his face, like he was offended by his tears. Clint couldn’t blame him for not wanting to cry. He was careful not to look at Bucky without making it obvious; enough to give him privacy without treating him with the kid-gloves. 

“There is one good thing about forgetting, though.” He kept his tone light. Beside him, Bucky snorted.

“Oh yeah? One thing, huh? And what’s that?”

Clint grinned. “Getting to eat everything for the first time again.”

Bucky paused, then let out a surprised laugh. “I guess so. I’m pretty sure Hydra didn’t actually give me food, so everything would be new to me anyway, but sure.”

Good point. And a depressing one. “Well, for what it’s worth, Steve says not to eat the bananas or the popcorn.”

Bucky’s gaze went far-away again, like he was trying to remember. Unlike before, it looked less like a struggle, less like he was forcing himself. He almost looked like any other person trying to reach for a memory a tiny bit to far away, instead of someone trying to make sense of things that he didn’t understand. His head was tilted back, blue eyes clear, no stress creasing his face. For a second, Clint was looking at the same man that he’d seen so many times in textbooks growing up.

Bucky licked his lips. “He used to love them, when we was real little. They were one of the cheaper fruits, the one we could get pretty regular. Didn’t get them a lot in the army, though.”

It was interesting to hear tidbits about Steve as a kid. With all the stories he told, it seemed like none of them were actually personal. Even Tony, who had a weird not-dating-but-more-than-flirting thing going with Steve admitted that he knew very little about the man.

Clint half-shrugged and his shoulder brushed against Bucky’s. At some point they must have shifted closer together without him noticing. He tried very hard to ignore the heat coming from Bucky, to no success.

“Well, apparently he hates them now. SpiderKid said it had something to do with bananas dying and candy or something? Honestly, I tuned it out.”

Bucky turned to face him and raised an eyebrow. “Spider….Kid?”

Clint laughed. “Oh, yeah. Welcome to the wacky world of 21st century superheroes, dude. It’s fucking weird. Kid is like 16, but a fucking genius.”

“16, huh? When we were 16, some punk in the neighborhood tried to jump Stevie and me for being queer. Let’s just say that if he had superpowers at 16, I don’t think New York would still be standing today. He would have razed it to rubble. Principled little shit.”

He laughed, clearly still remembering, and it was the most relaxed Clint had seen him. Bucky opened his mouth to say something else, but instead a jaw-cracking yawn came out. He looked shocked, as though he didn’t expect his body to need sleep, or at least didn’t think that his body would betray his basic needs to obviously. 

The second Clint thought it, he knew it was absolutely, tragically true. The chances that Bucky had gotten any real sleep in the past 70 years were about the same as the chances that Clint would give up his bow to a stranger on the subway. It was suddenly very important to him that Bucky got a good night’s sleep.

As far as he was concerned, there was nothing better than laying in bed after a long, hard day (except maybe coffee… and his bow… and pizza. Okay, it was definitely top 5). Being able to burrow into the blankets, to feel surrounded in a completely safe way, eased something in his mind in a way that nothing else could. That was the kind of peace that Bucky deserved.

Clint got up from where he was sitting, groaning at the way his joints popped and the soreness in his legs. When had he gotten so old that he couldn’t run a couple blocks without getting sore? He tried to quickly stretch everything out, then turned to Bucky.

“Well, I’m ready to turn in, I’ll just take the floor. You can enjoy the bed.”

Bucky stared back at him blankly. He glanced at the bed, then back to Clint. “This bed is so big that it wouldn’t have even fit in our old tenement. We can both fit on it.”

Clint hesitated. The SHIELD agent in him, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Coulson, said that it was a terrible idea. That Bucky was armed and dangerous, and could be waiting for the perfect moment to make his move. Sleeping at all was risky; the safest move would be to stick it out and stay up until he was 100% safe.

Another voice (definitely Nat) told him that it was too dangerous, but not because of the physical threat. Clint was already emotionally compromised. He wasn’t treating this like a mission. It was like his brain had decided that it would turn off the second he had been pressured for his formal resignation. He wasn’t being smart at all. On top of that, he liked Bucky. He was treating him like a friend who was riding this out with him instead of as a target. Allowing himself to let down his guard in that way would only complicate things more.

But… he was tired. Not just physically, but tired of keeping his guard up around everyone for no reasons, other than ‘just in case’. One of the women at the circus told him once that he had to trust himself enough to know when his gut was right. Right now, his gut was telling him that there was nothing to fear from Bucky, not for him. It was saying that if he slept on the floor for no good reason, Bucky would take it as the slight if realistically was.

Despite Coulson and Nat standing on his shoulders, trying to convince him to be safe, he couldn’t actually bring himself to stick to his guns.

“Well, I am a bit of a cuddler, so. Speak now or prepare to be spooned.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth turned up and an eyebrow quirked. “Y’know, i think I might have been a cuddler, too, once upon a time. I don’t know what spooning is, but maybe you can convince me of how good it is.”

If he didn’t know any better, Clint would have thought that Bucky was flirting. That was… a lot to handle, honestly. Clint cleared his throat and pointed toward the door.

“In the morning, I have some things I need to do. I’m going to run to Walgreens and pick up some shit; food, drinks, that kind of stuff. If you wake up before I get back, feel free to shower or whatever. I’ll try to keep it down when I get up.”

He wavered for just a second before pulling off his undershirt and dropping his pants. In for a penny, right? He might as well be physically comfortable if he was going to feel awkward as hell. He wasn’t wearing his best pair of boxer briefs, but somehow, he didn’t really think that Bucky would judge him for it. He wouldn’t judge him for the scars marring his body, either. 

No, Bucky wasn’t looking at the gunshot wounds and knife marks. He wasn’t looking at the place that Trickshot shot him with an arrow, or the remains of the fight on the Helicarrier. He was looking, though. Bucky was slowly looking up and down Clint’s body, an eyebrow arched. He didn’t say anything, though. He just slid backwards on the bed and tucked himself under the sheets and blankets. 

With a sigh, Clint turned off the lights and slid into the bed himself. They were far enough apart that they weren’t touching. For now, at least.

&&&&&&&&

Clint woke up with the sun, refreshed for the first time in a long time. It could have been because of the stress or maybe because it was a really good night’s sleep (did he need to buy himself a new mattress?). Or maybe, it was because of the long line of Bucky’s body pressed against his own, from shoulder to knee. Clint always did his best sleep with someone else. Who knew that extended to ex-Hydra assassins?

It was warm and cozy, and Clint would love nothing more than to stay there until Bucky woke up (and maybe longer). He knew he couldn’t, though, for any number of reasons. He slowly started to pull away, careful not to rouse Bucky. He took a second to look back at the tousled hair stretched across the pillows. Bucky shifted a little and the sheet slipped down and exposed the shoulder that had been branded with Hydra’s logo. Clint really hoped that he was doing right by Bucky. The man deserved it.

The shower was rushed, but he was clean. That was all that mattered. When he got out, it looked like Bucky was still sleeping, so Clint went down to the front desk. He was hoping that he would catch the nice girl who worked the other night, just because they already had a rapport. It would make things infinitely easier. 

For once in his life, he actually lucked out.

The girl was sitting behind the desk, clutching a large cup of what smelled like coffee. She was wearing a scarf that he vaguely recognized as pride colors. He put on an embarrassed-looking smile as he walked toward the desk.

“Hey, good afternoon. Do you think I could borrow the phone quick?”

There were a lot of advantages to living in the 21st century. The lack of pay phones (and the abundance of cell phones) was not one of them when you were trying to stay anonymous. Back in the day (and jesus christ did that thought make Clint feel old), it was easy to make an anonymous phone call on a job. Nowadays, even burner cells had built in geodata. Plus, everyone was suspicious of a person without a cell. They were cheap, easy, and readily available.

The front desk worker gave a tired smile. “Just so you know, we have complimentary cell phone chargers in the business center!” 

Clint gave his best puppy dog eyes. This would probably have worked better for Bucky; he was much cuter. “I appreciate that, but we actually left our phones at home. My partner and I were so excited by this whole spur of the moment staycation that we forgot to let our friends know that we’d be incommunicado for the weekend. I just wanted to let them know we’re not dead.”

She stared at him for a few seconds longer than polite, but eventually shrugged and passed over the phone. “Press 9-1 to dial out.”

Clint grabbed the handset and quickly dialed Natasha’s number. Thankfully, she picked up on the first try. She had probably been waiting to hear from him. 

“Yes?”

“Nat! Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t have my phone right now but I’m totally fine.”

“Jesus Christ, Barton. Do you know the kind of mess you’ve made?” Clint winced. She actually sounded mad at him this time.

“I know, I’m sorry! Bucky and I just got a little carried away. We’ll be back on Monday, I promise.” He hadn’t wanted to use Bucky’s real name, just in case, but there was no way to communicate what was happening any other way. Not when someone was standing right there, hearing what he was saying.

“Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?”

He cheerfully ignored what Nat was saying. “Well you tell Steve that he’s a worrywart and that Bucky will be totally fine! They can see each other for brunch on Monday.”

Okay, this was shaping up to be the least discreet and spy-ish conversation he’d ever had with Natasha. He could practically hear her slamming her hitting her head, but whatever. 

She was silent on the other side for a few seconds, then she sighed. “Fine, I’ll cover until then. Be at the Avengers Tower at 10:30.”

Clint smiled. Bless Natasha. “Thanks for understanding.”

He handed the handset back to the girl with a thank you and a smile. The worker barely looked his way (and one of these days, he would have to come back and tip her just as much as she deserved). He just had to spend one more day with a brain-washed super soldier assassin. He could do that. Probably.

He glanced toward stairs, considering if he should head back to the room before he headed out, before deciding that he should let Bucky sleep in if he could. There was a Walgreens not too far away where he could pick up some things. If he was lucky, he could find a cheap clothes store on the way.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When he got back up to the room, he set his bags down right inside the door, along with the backpack that he had purchased. He hadn’t managed to find a cheap place to buy clothes, but he did find a very, very high end place to buy clothes. He spent more money there on two outfits than he had spent on himself in the last two years. It meant that he had to risk using a credit card (under a different name, of course), but it was necessary. It wasn’t like they could walk around New York City dressed in only what they already had.

Bucky was already awake and sitting up in bed. His hair looked tousled and there were still pillow creases on his cheek. It was oddly sweet looking. And also incredibly hot, the way his naked chest was flushed from sleep. The sheets pooled in his lap caught Clint’s eye. He was so going to hell.

Sooner, rather than later, if the look Bucky was giving him had anything to say about it. Jesus, maybe he wouldn’t survive, after all. Honestly, though, Clint couldn’t blame Bucky for wanting to murder him.

Clint should have stayed retired.

“So, uh, we’ll lay low for now and then we’ll meet at the Avengers Tower at 10:30.”

“What then?” For someone who looked so sleep rumpled, Bucky sounded amazingly clear. Clint was pretty sure he’d been sleeping, at least, but who knew. 

Realistically, Clint had no clue what then. He trusted Natasha to clear the way for them and to make sure that the Avengers were prepared for what was about to happen. SHIELD would be pissed at Clint, and probably still try to find a way to get Bucky. Plus, Hydra wouldn’t be happy that their asset turned up with their enemies. He was pretty sure that Steve would welcome them with open arms, but that was kind of banking on Bucky wanting to interact with Steve.

He had no answers, so he just shrugged. Honesty and all that crap.

In one fluid motion, Bucky rolled off of the bed and started walking his way over to Clint. Apparently, at some point, he had gotten naked because he was very, very naked. The way he was walking toward Clint felt like the first time that he cornered Natasha. Bucky was weaponizing his nudity, and Clint felt like scum because it was working.

Bucky wasn’t the kind of fit that you get from spending hours every day at the gym. His body wasn’t the kind that you saw on the front of fitness magazines. It was the type of body that came from hard work -- a thick core and even thicker thighs. It was perfectly honed to perform any task he might need to do, whether it be stomping through two feet of snow or chasing a mark for as long as it took to catch them. 

Clint tried his best not to stare, not to view Bucky’s body as anything but a vehicle, but it was clear that he was trained to use his body as a weapon in every way that he could, and he was good at it. The night before, he stalked toward Clint in an attempt to be as threatening as possible. Now, though, Bucky sauntered close, making sure that Clint knew what was on offer. That Bucky was on offer. 

Somehow it felt distinctly different than seeing Bucky without a shirt on at the auction. Then, Clint could only focus on the brutality, on the vicious scars and the cruel handling. Now, he could see the deadly grace of his body. Every inch of it was hard, compact, and in other circumstances, someone might have described him as “sex on legs”. 

He had a good couple inches on Clint, and probably 20 or 30 pounds of pure muscle, but somehow he managed to make himself look smaller, submissive somehow. He stopped just in front of Clint and ducked his head. He looked with wide eyes. 

“I can be useful. I know the Avengers are… good guys, but I can do more than kill. I have more skills to offer than violence.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Clint really hoped that he wasn’t offering what Clint thought he was. 

Bucky dropped to his knees and gently tugged on Clint’s waistband, not making a move to unbutton them (thank god), but making the implication very clear. He peered up at Clint from under his eyelashes. The fingers of his metal hand were surprisingly warm against his stomach.

Bucky licked his lips. “I know I’m causing you a lot of trouble, but I can be worth it. I can pay you back for everything. I can be useful, if you don’t get rid of me.”

Clint was frozen. He wasn’t a stranger to the idea of payment in sexual favors. He had been on both sides of it, many times. Somehow, though, this offer seemed more messed up than any of the others he’d gotten. Mostly because he didn’t think that Bucky understood how fucked up the proposition was. Even if he did, there was no way that Clint could take him up on it.

He probably could have been more sensitive, given a supportive response, but what came out of his mouth was, “Fuck, dude. No. There is so much wrong with what is happening right now.”

Bucky looked confused, and maybe a little upset. His eyebrows furrowed.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know that you want me.”

Clint couldn’t deny that he found Bucky sexually attractive. He also couldn’t deny that he had let his gaze linger. He shouldn’t have, but he did. Now it was coming back to bite him in the ass, because of course Bucky had trouble understanding the difference between finding a person sexually attractive and acting on it. 

He sighed. “You’re very attractive, yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to use you..”

Bucky sat back on his heels and let his hands drop down to his sides. He looked eerily similar to Steve, when Steve was annoyed at someone. 

“So, what, I’m good enough to help but not good enough to fuck?”

“No, it’s not… That’s not what I’m saying. You’re too good to use that way.”

Bucky just looked lost. He wasn’t annoyed anymore, he wasn’t bordering on angry, he was just lost. “I’m only as good as my use. There’s no such thing as “too good” for being useful.”

In that moment, Clint wished that he could single-handedly burn all of Hydra to the ground. He regretted not slitting the throats of every person he saw at that auction. Bucky looked so genuinely hurt and confused. He didn’t understand that he had worth as a person. The concept was beyond him.

Clint could remember falling into that mindset, working himself to the bone for the circus, for Trickshot. He remembered thinking as he was bleeding out that if he had done better, maybe Trickshot wouldn’t have left him for dead at the moment that Clint became an inconvenience. 

He could remember when it came back, after Loki. Those moments when he woke up and lost himself because he didn’t have a use, because there were no orders to follow. He could remember the look on Phil’s face the first time that Clint explained that he skipped out on medical because he didn’t want to waste resources that he hadn't earned. It was probably the same look that Clint had now.

More than anything, though, he could remember the feeling of loneliness. It was so isolating to believe that you were only around because you were an asset to someone. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Bucky was an asset, The Asset, not a person. Not to Hydra, not for the last 70 years. 

“Look, Bucky.” Clint licked his lips and started again. “Look, you remember some stuff about Steve before the war, right? That he was sick all the time.”

He waited until Bucky nodded to go on.

“Steve was your friend. It wasn’t because he was useful. In fact, he needed a lot of things that you struggled to provide. But your memories are good. You don’t resent him. You didn’t cast him aside when he was a “burden” on you. Friendship isn’t based on usefulness. You shouldn’t feel like you need to give me anything, especially your body, to help.”

Bucky leaned back on his heels. His voice was soft and quiet. “What if it was something i wanted to do? Friends have sex, right?”

Clint took a deep breath before he answered, trying to give himself enough time to get his thoughts together. It wasn’t. He was pretty sure there wasn't’ enough time in the world to figure out what he was thinking. 

“Sure, friends do sometimes. And if it was something you wanted, then that would be okay, I guess. But that wouldn’t be something that I want right now, because I’m not certain that you really know what it is you’re proposing.” With a half smile, he added, “I prefer all of my partners to fully consent. Consent is sexy.”

Bucky looked at him, briefly, then looked back down. He rose, a little less gracefully and a little more shaky, and gave a small nod to Clint. He made his way back over to the bed and started sorting through the things that Clint had bought.

The night went by uneventfully. Bucky seemed lost in thought, and Clint didn’t want to interrupt him. They made their way through the snacks that Clint had bought (practically all junk). Bucky decided that he didn’t like the chips, but he had a sweet tooth to rival Nat’s. He took a shower that was so long that Clint knocked on checked on him, twice. When he got out, he stayed in one of the pairs of boxers that Clint had purchased and picked up a notebook that had been a last minute impulse. He spent most of the evening spread out on the bed, writing in it, until he passed out in the middle of a page. Clint carefully closed it and set it aside before laying down to sleep himself.

They both woke up early, as if their bodies knew that they had a mission and needed to be out early. That was probably exactly what it was. They had everything that they were planning on taking packed away in the backpack that Clint bought, ready for the trip to the Tower. It was still too early to leave, but Clint wanted to be prepared. Plus, there was one more thing to be done, and he wanted to have plenty of time, just in case. 

Bucky was sitting on the bed, frowning. He was dressed in the clothes that Clint had bought. The shirt and hoodie fit well enough, a little large, but that helped hide his body a little better. The pants, though, were small. Well, small might not have been the right word, but tight definitely was. The way they pulled across Bucky’s thighs was frankly indecent. Clint hadn’t seen him from behind yet, but he would bet that it was a mouth-watering sight.

If his expression wasn’t so uncomfortable, Clint would have happily allowed himself to thirst after Bucky. He was clearly not enjoying himself, though, and it felt a little wrong. He kept pulling on the hood of the sweater and shifting minutely, like he wasn’t sure how to get comfortable in the pants.

Clint licked his lips nervously. He knew that Bucky was a little freer and easier with casual touching than Clint had initially expected him to be, but he couldn’t help remembering how Bucky had flinched when Clint had fixed his hair the first night, in front of the hotel.

He cleared his throat to get Bucky’s attention. “Look, before we go, i think… we should cut your hair.”

Bucky froze, going unnaturally still. The only thing that moved were Bucky’s eyes. They went from his lap straight to Clint’s face, boring straight into him. It was like an animal trying to watch for predators. Or when they were watching prey. Clint honestly didn’t know which he was just then.

Clint shifted a little. “I picked up some clippers. With your arm hidden, the next most visible feature is your hair. We could try to comb it out and put it in a ponytail or plait, but it felt pretty matted, and cutting it will be the easiest way. And the least painful.”

Natasha always told him that staying silent was the quickest way to get someone to talk. He was fucking terrible at it, though. Which probably showed that what she said was true.

“You can trust me. Or at least, you can trust me to not fuck it up too bad. I used to cut my brother’s hair all of the time. If I made him look too bad, he’d beat the shit out of me, so I had the bearded lady teach me how to do it.”

Bucky’s shoulders slowly dropped from around his ears and he brought his flesh hand up to run it though his hair, the same nervous habit that Clint had watched him do over and over again. He barely got past the crown of his head before he hit a snag, stopping his fingers in their tracks. He sighed, then shrugged.

“Let’s cut it. I trust you.”

Those were loaded words if Clint had ever heard any. And they were fucking scary, too. Clint knew that he had used the t-word first, but hearing that Bucky trusted him…? What had he done to deserve trust? How did someone like Bucky still have the ability to trust after so long of seeing only the worst scum of the Earth?

Clint felt undeserving and a little dirty. If Bucky knew him any better, he would know how many mistakes Clint made and just how often. He would see that Clint was a good guy at your back, maybe, but he would never be your first (or even 4th) phonecall. He may be someone you call in an emergency, when you need a body behind you, but he’s not the one call because you trust them. But somehow, Clint had tricked Bucky into believing that he was.

Admittedly, Clint was the first non-Hydra agent that he had interacted with in God kenw how long. Bucky was just confusing being a not-horrible guy for being a trustworthy one. He would see different when he got back together with Steve; Steve was a real trustworthy guy, the one with the plans, who didn’t get himself hurt constantly (risking the team because of his impulsiveness). 

There was no way that Clint could live up to that in the long run, but at least he could give Bucky a haircut. He could be trusted with some clippers. He nodded towards the bathroom, where he left everything.

There was a moment where Bucky looked undecided before he pulled off his hoodie and shirt. It made sense, so that he didn’t get hair on them. It was totally logical, but somehow it made the room seem incredibly small all of a sudden.

It became clear pretty quickly that Clint wasn’t quite tall enough to cut Bucky’s hair while they were both standing. There wasn’t enough room to put the desk chair in the small room, either. Clint stood there, trying to figure out what to do, when Bucky slowly lowered himself onto the edge of the bathtub.

Something felt oddly intimate about having Bucky sitting in front of him, turning his back to Clint like it was nothing. It was a show that Bucky really did trust him, not just enough to let him use sharp tools around his neck, but enough to turn his back on someone with a weapon.

Clint grabbed the clippers off the counter and carefully ran his other hand through Bucky’s hair, trying to decide where to start. He ignored the light flinch. Deep breath. He could do this. Just start at the bottom and work his way up.

When he used to cut Barney’s hair, or even when he did his own, Clint would just do the most basic buzzcut possible, all one length. It was the easiest option. For Bucky, though, he wanted to do something a little fancier, closer to what his hair used to look like in the old propaganda pictures. It meant more effort and a little more time, but it was worth it.

When Bucky turned around so that Clint could finish the front of his hair, he looked like a totally new person. Even before it was done, the haircut seemed to take decades off of his life, and lifted a world of struggles from his shoulders. Without the hair to shadow his face, his eyes were almost lighter, that blue grey of a cool winter morning, and so, so striking. 

Clint paused for a second, taking in all of the features that had suddenly been uncovered. Sharp cheekbones, a strong chin (with a little dimple, Jesus). Bucky was drop-dead gorgeous.

It was actually a little more difficult focusing well rough to finish Bucky’s hair. It was more difficult than he remembered to use clippers on longer hair, but he found himself glancing down over and over again. It didn’t help that Bucky was staring at him the entire time. Not like he had been earlier, when Clint had recommended cutting his hair. More like he had when Clint had joked about being spooned the night before. It was disconcertingly appealing. Not to mention that bucky was now sitting with his face closer to Clint’s… waist, staring up at him through thick eyelashes. 

He needed to focus. No more looking at Bucky’s eyes, or at the way his mouth was parted, just a little, or the flush high on his cheeks. Hair. just hair. Clint took a deep breath and focused back on what he was doing. His cutting wasn’t incredibly skilled, but it managed to look okay, even though some of the pieces were a little longer than the others. He could probably fix it with scissors later. If he tossled it a bit, it might even look artfully messy, in a sort of hipster way.

Without thinking about it, he put down the clippers and started running his hands through Bucky’s hair, pulling a little to get ti to sit how he wanted. He didn’t pull too hard, he though, but it was enough to cause Bucky to make a small noise in the back of his throat. He froze, fingers still tangled in the (much shorter) locks, and swept his eyes down. Bucky’s eyes were closed and his jaw was clenched tight as he breathed harshly through his nose.

Clint jerked back, horrified that he could be so thoughtless. His fingers stayed stuck, though, and he ended up yanking harshly. Bucky’s mouth dropped open and he let out a louder, much more distinct noise. Not an upset one, either. He opened his eyes, half lidded and staring up at Clint.

“If we didn’t have a timeline to stick to, I would fully consent to you dragging me back to the bed to do that some more.

CLint was left speechless, or maybe just breathless. Every dirty thought he didn’t know that he had been suppressing about what Bucky suggested, and a whole lot more flashed behind his eyes. He couldn’t help but remember the way the stretch of skin and metal looked against the clean white sheets. 

Before he could even begin to think of how to respond, Bucky stood. Clint tried to back up, o give him some room, but he followed Clint’s movements until Clint was backed up against the sink and Bucky was pressed against his front, a solid line from chest to (ridiculously thick) thigh. Bucky took his time checking himself out in the mirror over Clint’s shoulder, brushing stray hairs from his shoulders. He grinned, a little lopsided, and dropped his eyes back to Clint.

“This looks great, thanks. I almost feel like I’m lookin’ at my old self again.”

He leaned down, moving slowly and deliberately. Clint was pretty sure that Bucky was going to kiss him. He was pretty fucking positive of it. And fuck was he excited for it. This was so markedly different than the night before, when Bucky offered himself to Clint as a necessity. The hollow look in his eyes and the frantic edge to his movements were gone. Instead, he was moving slowly, almost teasing, and Clint was sure that he was seeing the old Bucky. 

He tilted his head up, so ready to be kissed, but at the last second, Bucky moved slightly to the left and pressed a light kiss to Clint’s cheek. His lips were cool and chapped, and Clint could feel them scrape against his stubble.

“We should head out.”

Bucky sauntered out of the bathroom and stopped long enough to pull his shirt and hoodie back on and open the room door. He stopped and looked back at Clint with an eyebrow quirked. “You comin’?”

Clint counted to 10, trying to calm himself down, and then followed. He picked up the backpack along the way, did one last once-over to make sure they hadn’t left anything, and followed out the door.

They barely made it a few steps out of the hotel and Clint was feeling tense. He probably shouldn't be, not really.  They had managed to get everything settled and set up quickly enough that HYDRA wouldn't have time to realize what was happening, and SHIELD would be so bogged down with paperwork and procedures that they wouldn't be ready to search. That was, if they even realized the needed to yet. Hopefully, Nat had done her job well enough that they didn't even realize they needed to search. 

There were two ways to get to the Tower. They could either take a cab or they could take the subway. Each choice had their pros and cons. The subway would probably be quicker, but it would expose them to a lot more people, including having to stand on platforms like sitting ducks. The more people, the higher the chance of seeing someone who would recognize one or the other of them. A cab would take forever; even midmorning on a weekday, the traffic was ridiculous. On the other hand, though, they would only have direct contact with a single person.

They left with enough time that either option would work, so Clint quickly decided that the best option would be for them to travel by cab. For an extra precaution, they would walk a few blocks away from the hotel before the caught one.

At his side, Bucky was strolling along like it was any other day. He didn’t seem tense at all. His left hand was in his pocket, to hide the metal gleam. Honestly, it was amazing that his hand fit at all with how snug the jeans were. The vibe he was giving off was perfect. He looked like just another New Yorker, walking down the street like he owned it, too gorgeous to approach. And his other hand was holding tightly onto Clint’s. Clint, who looked like most of a slob, backpack high on his back. To everyone else around them, they looked like any other couple trying to go about their day. 

They made their way to an intersection with enough traffic that there were plenty of cabs looking for passengers. They wouldn’t have to wait long, which meant less risk of being spotted, just in case someone was watching them. He held tight to Bucky’s hand and raised the other to hail a cab. It wasn’t long before one pulled over for them. He quickly checked that it had an official medallion and they slid in and Clint tucked the backpack at his feet.

The driver  took out a headphone long enough to hear their directions, then put it back in and pulled away from the curb. Clint gave the intersection a few blocks from the Tower, a coffee shop that he got Nat’s almond milk mochas from when he pissed her off badly enough. They managed one short walk, they would manage another. He settled back into the seat.

Bucky was still holding onto his hand, tightly. For as cool and composed as he looked during the walk, he was extremely tense now. In a way, Clint could relate. Before, they had control of what was happening and where they were going. Now, they were in the hands of a stranger. And Clint wasn’t even about to be reunited with his long-lost whatever Steve was.

He squeezed Bucky’s hand gently to get his attention. Bucky turned wide, anxious eyes toward him. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want. We didn’t really talk about other options before, but if this is too much for you right now, I have a few boltholes.”

Bucky looked at him a little incredulously, but he seemed to relax a bit. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?”

Clint shrugged a little. “It’s never too late. You always have options.”

Bucky furrowed his brows, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked out the window. Clint left him alone to his thoughts. He tried to see the drive from the perspective of someone who didn’t remember the city, maybe who hadn’t seen the city at all since the 40s. It was pretty nice, all things considered. A little slow, but long enough that Bucky would get to see a lot of the city.

Even in the cab, he still felt tense every time they had to stop at a red light, any time someone could look in the backseat and see an Avenger and a HYDRA assassin. The dulled sound of the cabbie’s music was the only sound. Clint tried to use the time to figure out what they would do if Bucky didn’t want to go into the Tower, if Tony wouldn’t take them in, if Steve didn’t believe that Bucky was who he thought it was. 

Him and Nat had gone halfsies on a small house in upstate New York. It was a little farm property that needed a lot of work, but maybe that would be a nice change of pace for them. It would be an escape from people, something to keep them busy. He also had a larger farm property in Iowa; he rented it out and it was currently occupied, but if they got a car and drove there, took the scenic route, they could give the man time to get his affairs in order. Maybe they could even stay in the barn so that they didn’t have to kick him out at all.

They could even go to a different country. Romania was nice, from what little he had seen of it. Maybe Bucky would like small village living. Then again, Clint had only been there to find HYDRA hideouts. Maybe somewhere a little further away from Russia. Clint had heard that Brazil was nice. 

They were exiting the tunnel, nearly into Manhattan, when Bucky finally spoke again. It took Clint a second to recognize the fact that he was speaking. Somehow, he had fallen deep into a fantasy life where he and Bucky had moved to Brazil, living in a little fishing town. Jesus, maybe he did need to retire if a simple mission was getting so deep in his head. 

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Bucky looked at him for a minute, like he was trying to see what was going through Clint’s brain. Clint really, really hoped that HYDRA hadn’t perfected any brain reading technology.

“I said, thank you.”

“There’s no reason to thank me.” Clint gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand again (apparently neither of them had pulled away). 

Bucky took a deep breath, like he wanted to say more, then sighed it away. He closed his eyes and rolled his head back, before making eye contact again. “Look. When we talked, before. You made it seem like you were just doing what any other person would do. I may not remember a lot of stuff, but I do remember some things, and I don’t remember anyone like you.”

Clint stared at him, unsure how to respond. He honestly didn’t think that he was doing anything unusual, anything that any good person would do. He was just looking out for Bucky because Bucky had nobody else to do it. His sentiment was awfully close to what Nat had told him, way back when he went rogue and saved her. She was just as curious why someone would help her who had no motivation to do so. She told him that he had a soft heart, and that he wasn’t meant for this kind of work. Maybe she was right. Maybe Bucky was right. 

Or maybe Clint was just stupid enough to break rules that other people held like laws. It was probably just that.

He tried to shrug off Bucky’s words. “It’s no big deal, really.”

Bucky huffed and rolled his eyes. “What is it about self flagellating blonds that gets me going, huh? Take the fucking compliment.”

Clint felt his cheeks flush. He couldn’t remember the last time that he blushed. What the fuck. “It’s not.. I mean..” 

Bucky pulled their joined hands up and pressed a soft kiss to their joined knuckles. “Let me just put it like this: you’re worried about fuckin’ trauma bonding or some shit. I think I like you because I like you and not because of some shit HYDRA did to me. Something tells me that you’re going to want me to go to a bunch of doctors to poke at my brain, so hows about if I still want to take you out in 6 months, you can show me the sights? Or maybe we can check out one of those boltholes and you can teach me how to… spoon?”

They pulled up the curb in front of the coffee shop. Clint pulled the money out of his wallet on autopilot. It was definitely too much, but whatever. Tipping extra never hurt anybody.

They slid out of the cab, still hand in hand. Clint looked up and down the street, then quickly pulled Bucky toward him long enough that he could return the gentle kiss to the cheek that Bucky had given him earlier.

“If we make it these next few blocks safely, you’re on.”

Who knew, maybe Clint’s luck was turning around.